


You Save Me From Myself

by LemonKith



Series: A Liars' Romance [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Flexible hints of other Freelancer relationships, General Freelancer shenanigans and drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 148,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonKith/pseuds/LemonKith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Project Freelancer was 4 years of many ups and downs, but they were together through it all.<br/>This is the tale of the entire Project as told by Agents Florida and Wyoming, the memories managed to make during it, and the relationship they made despite it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Book's Cover Looks... Weird

**Author's Note:**

> I got into the Red vs. Blue fandom a short while ago and there's something kind of weird going on, at least for Florida/Wyoming fics; plenty of great one-shots, no long developed stories. I don't know why this is, maybe there's some unspoken rule I'm breaking, but when you can't find what you want, you have to write it yourself instead.
> 
> This will be pretty long therefore, and because we don't get to see that much of them on-screen - Looking at you here, Florida - I had to flesh them out a bit. I don't think what I've added is unreasonable, and I hope you don't either, but just a heads up for anyone who might disagree with what I add.
> 
> Also, this starts at the start of Project Freelancer; everyone is still pretty young and innocent, like pre-Epsilon Wash. (On that note, don't read this before you've seen the end of Season 10.)

“Oh, wow! Now, this really is a lovely ship. It really shows a lot of care goes on here when such a large ship is still kept so clean,” he said, still beaming, “And so modern as well... I’ve never been to a place like this before. I suppose I must have a lucky star out there somewhere- Perhaps we passed it on the way here,” as the guard lead him, handcuffed, along corridors up from the landing bay closer to the bridge. “Well, that decides it; I’m going to like it here!”

“Seriously, how are you more cheerful than I am when you’re the one in handcuffs?” the guard asked as they turned onto the final corridor.

“Aw, these aren’t so bad! Kind of... snug, once you get used to them.” He grinned about it and rattled them playfully as he walked.

“Well, you’re nuts.” Although the guard was actually being friendly while he said that. “I guess that’s why the Director wants you or something.” They stopped together at the door where there was another guard. “Prisoner AF-124. The Director requested him.”

The new guard looked at the prisoner.

“Hi there!”

“Uh, right.” This one didn’t have a clue why either.

But it was this guard that lead the new agent of the Freelancer Project in.

* * *

“Prisoner AF-124, serving under the name Alexander Fleming, previously going by the name Eric Fingleham,” the Director drawled across the table at him, so close to but of course not actually amused; “Would you care to confirm if either of those names are actually your real name, in case your enlistment officer was oblivious to the origin of penicillin?”

He grinned. “He was and I thought it’d be funny either way! But you’re very astute; neither are real. I don’t have a true name, as I don’t have a proper birth certificate. All of the names I could give you would be little more than aliases or missing people, but I’d most gladly give you any of those that you want.” If only his chair was able to tilt back, then he could have been truly comfortable. As it was, he was simply slouching slightly, shackled hands in his lap, never stopping his smile.

“What would you prefer to be known as whilst here?”

“Well,” he tasted the word on his tongue, looking around, “in places that I like, I go by the name Butch Flowers, so here I’d like to go by that.”

The Director’s lip actually curled up. “Good.”

The questioning was passed over for a time to the Counsellor stood beside him. “Could you confirm the other details in your file, please?” Two of his fingers touched the desk, a rectangle of light appeared to them, and made a gentle sliding motion across.

Butch received the file on his side, sitting up slightly to look over the dimly glowing, clinical boxes that his life could never correctly fill. “I sure can. The age is approximate,” It read 20, “as the birthdate’s right if you give or take a month either side,” He could be just 21 at one extreme, “and yep, no fixed abode outside of the military, no family or religion. Allergy to aspirin...” Looking over the bulk of the rest, he okey-dokey-ed it. “And swell! You’ve got my full list of court martial offences. Glad to help you, gentlemen.” He couldn’t slide it back across but when the Counsellor tapped twice with his two fingers again, the digital file returned to him swiftly.

While he corrected the relevant information in his datapad, the Director’s gaze travelled across the electronic sheet, before his gaze turned and directed itself at Butch. “Gross insubordination, theft of a military vehicle, theft of military supplies, breaking and entering a military establishment and absconding from exercises, including one designed to punish your repeated defiance of regulations and authority. That’s one of the most impressive rap sheets I’ve ever seen.” Again, he sounded almost amused.

“Now, I think that’s wonderful when you can find praise even in someone’s misdoings, Director. I’m very pleased by what you’ve said and you’re very kind,” Butch nodded and brought his legs up to cross them on his chair.

“I wasn’t praising you, Flowers,” the Director said. “You’d be looking at life imprisonment had one of my scouts not heard and recommended you to this project.”

“And I’m absolutely delighted that they did, and that you’d accept me even with all that.” Feeling a little worried now, Butch attempted to make his smile a little sweeter and humbler. “It’s very kind and I intend to live up to every expectation you can give me. After all, I joined the military for the reason of avoiding prison so-”

“Enough,” said the Director. His new agent fell silent, the wattage of his beaming smile decreasing slightly as well. “If that is the case, then welcome aboard Project Freelancer. Although there is a formal testing procedure you need to complete within the week, I have little doubt in your capability to do so.”

“Thank you.”

“Therefore, as you talked of expectations, I would like to make ours clear to you now in terms of what your role is to be here, Flowers.”

“Of course, Sir. I’m ready and waiting!”

“Cut the pep, soldier,” the Director tiredly instructed, sliding Butch’s file a little closer. “...Do you always pick surnames beginning with an F, or is that merely coincidence?”

“My, you do have a good eye!” Butch hummed cheerfully. “It’s the only one thing I always keep.”

“Then, providing you pass the basic assessment, from now on you will be Agent Florida,” the Director announced.

“I’d be delighted to be!”

Sighing, it seemed the Director had fully tired of the young man’s enthusiasm and gestured for the Counsellor to continue. “Agent Florida, you have been told before the goals of our project. As to our methods, you will come to learn of them in due course.” Butch nodded, leaning forward a little. “The other agents selected for this project have already been training within our facilities here on the Mother of Invention for nearly 3 months now-”

“Are they named after states too?” their new recruit asked.

“That is irrelevant to this discussion,” the Counsellor flatly stated. “...But yes, they are.”

Butch sat back and made a show of being politely quiet now.

He let the Counsellor continue. “Your role within this project will be slightly different to theirs. That team is our main field team, with regulated training to improve their combat techniques, psychological mindset and to test our new equipment as we develop it.” The Director blinked slowly, staring off somewhere behind Butch’s seat. “You will not be training with them as your role is different. You will also not be rooming in the same area due to your... history with military living conditions.”

Butch shrugged and grinned like a misbehaved but hopeful child. It was entirely reasonable, within his view, for someone that adverse to living in a room like that again to find their own place. It wasn’t even as if the storage room was that nice or being used.

“You are to be our joker, Agent Florida,” the Director took over for what he found a more enjoyable part. “You are our wild card, of no intrinsic meaning.”

Butch held the man’s gaze for a moment, before he shifted his legs back down, sitting a little straighter.

The Counsellor continued his part. “You will work as a facilitator for the main team. Your separate training will concentrate on situational flexibility, infiltration, intelligence gathering and ensuring the survival of yourself and the other agents.”

“I understand,” Butch said more calmly, having taken a more pensive posture. His razor blue eyes observed the two new superiors in slow turns while he sat less like a joyful schoolchild and more like the truth of what he was.

The Director returned an almost impressed look. “You can work out why you were selected for this in light of the incredible act of disobedience you managed to commit during your basic training?”

“Well, that’s a rather nice way of putting it,” the wayward young man held his gaze keenly, his dirty-blonde hair still proudly defying all regulations and attempts to cut it.

“You have been selected for this position because you display every natural trait needed to an extremely high level, Agent Florida,” the Counsellor announced, looking between the datapad and their new soldier. “Your whole life has provided you with precisely the experience required for this position; it was considerably fortunate that we were looking when your _incident_ demonstrated precisely these necessary factors.”

Butch shrugged his manacled hands agreeably. “If something needs doing, I’ll find a way.”

“That is precisely what we need to hear, Agent.” The Director looked just slightly pleased. “You may be a delinquent, a court martialled soldier and above all completely defiant of every rule and accepted path society tries to throw at you,” Butch felt that was perhaps a little harsh, but he let it go in the spirit of it being a compliment, hopefully, “but we could hardly have found someone more perfect for this role. While the other Freelancers will be more technically competent and prepared for specific tasks and missions, we will be able to throw you into any situation without concern. Whatever hole you are thrown into, we will train you to be able to fill it, as are your best natural traits.”

The Counsellor assisted once again. “We have also selected you because of your amount of real life experience in difficult, unregulated circumstances. You are no stranger to dealing with situations where no holds are barred, unlike many of our other agents. They are trained impeccably, but it is only training after all. We hope that you will help make up for that in situations where training fails them, which we could not prepare them for. You know how to think on your feet, as it were, and see past standard strategies as well as predicting and manipulating the behaviour of other human beings. We hope that you will put all of these skills at our disposal and in return let us refine them even further.”

“Of course. This sounds splendid, gentlemen.” Butch did like the sound of this, actually. He’d thought a project could hardly be worse than prison, even if it did involve lab tests or so forth. He hadn’t imagined what he had always truly wanted. “I love a challenge to play.”

“Good,” the Director drawled, sitting back with steepled hands in his lap.

“If you enjoy challenges so much,” the Counsellor nodded, “I also thought you might like to assist in evaluating the training of the other Freelancer agents, both the skills of the agents themselves and evaluating the training methods and simulations as well.”

“Absotivolutely! Anything I can do to help the team!” It was hard to salute in handcuffs, but the new agent did his best.

“I will call someone to show you around and remove those handcuffs now,” the Counsellor explained calmly, turning aside to do so.

“Oh, these?” Butch flicked his wrists slightly, holding up the completely unlatched handcuffs to the surprise of his two superiors. “I undid them on the journey here; an inability to fight back in case of a double-cross or sudden disaster is almost as bad as chafed wrists, after all.” He tossed them onto the table where they slid across close to the Director. “I just didn’t want to make anyone here look incompetent when you’ve all been so nice to me!”

The Director looked between the defeated shackles and their cockily grinning new recruit, whilst the Counsellor found his senses again to respond to the person he’d left hanging at the start of their call.

“Welcome to Project Freelancer, Agent Florida.”


	2. Encounters of the First Kind

In retrospect, Agent Wyoming had first noticed his stalker before and after lunch. He just hadn’t thought much of seeing the same person twice on one ship around a meal time which they probably shared.

After an afternoon’s training, however, to catch that same person again behind him on the way to the locker room, then once more when looking back out of suspicion on the way to his room.

Whether it was nothing or something, Wyoming walked past his room and on down corridors he hadn’t had any reason to frequent before. So long as he stuck to open areas, a little exploration now he had settled in could hardly do harm.

As long as he remembered the way back too.

He didn’t catch the stalker most times he looked back under the pretence of taking a corner or having heard a legitimate noise, but he saw a flash of a colour that had become very distinctive in his mind today at least twice. His path was at random, taking whichever corridors he could that looked the least busy or hardest to follow someone down. This eventually led him to entering what had appeared to be a short corridor whilst he looked back at the last corner he had passed, but was in actuality a rather long, partly-stocked room of empty containers. He quickly slipped to the side.

Waiting, Wyoming stayed as still and pressed back just inside the room as possible, anticipating every moment his stalker might enter. Without a proper weapon, he hoped this was either an official training test or something harmlessly personal, as opposed to an enemy situation. His guard was up, body coiled to spring at the first sight of a head peering in around the frame. If they had sense, they would appear lower than standard head-height, but Wyoming didn’t know what he was working with here.

He didn’t know at all that someone with such skill in stealth could also have the insanity to jump through the door backwards and laughing. “That was _very_ impressive of you to notice me, Agent Wyoming! Congratulations!” Wyoming shifted slightly, lifting his guard a little closer to his body. “I had my concerns you are always too focussed on the particular rules and goals of the training mission to notice unexpected anomalies and dangers in the environment around you but now my concerns are for my obviously inferior tracking skills; it’s a good thing that I decided to practice them today and thank you for helping me to realise my flaws!”

“Er, jolly good, I suppose...” Wyoming began slowly, still keeping his fighting stance. “But who in blue blazes are you?”

“I’m not in blue blazes; I’m in royal blue blazes!” It appeared to be a joke, but for once Wyoming didn’t appreciate the chance for humour.

The royal blue armoured soldier, a completely unusual design, about half a foot shorter and a man by the sounds of his voice, stood straight and saluted the white Freelancer enthusiastically. Wyoming could practically hear his beaming grin. “Agent Florida! Pleased as punch to meet you!”

Very slowly, Wyoming felt it safe to drop his guard. “Agent Florida, eh? I take it you’re a Freelancer as well then; I hadn’t heard we were getting any new recruits.”

“I’ve been here 16 days now, I am a Freelancer, but my existence is for the most part unimportant to the main team,” Florida continued to chirp as he went and hopped up to sit on the edge of a metal crate, legs kicking slightly.

Unimportant? Yet he was in the habit of trailing them around and making judgements on their training? “Right. Could I ask a few questions then, old chap?” Despite being unguarded, Wyoming was still tensely on edge.

“I’d be thrilled to spend some time and give you whatever answers I can.” Florida certainly didn’t sound like a child, but there was still an uncanny aspect of it haunting him. This wasn’t the place for children or anyone who spoke or acted like them.

“Ah, right, yes...” Wyoming frowned inside his helmet, deciding first; “Why were you following me? You seemed to imply it was for some sort of training purposes.”

Florida began to nod. “I can see it’s absolutely fair you should know that. I was on self-training all afternoon and I decided to brush up my tailing skills. I followed you outside of training, other staff around the ship while you were busy. But give yourself a pat on the back; you were the only one to notice me.”

“Very good, but why _me_?”

“Oh, now you’ve caught me,” said Florida, tilting his helmet a little as if in thought. “I couldn’t really say; you just looked the most fun to follow and I was impressed by your tactics in Capture the Flag this morning.” That almost made it sound like a reward, of a most unsettling sort.

More pressingly. “I wasn’t aware you were participating in this morning’s session. You must have used up all of your stealth skills then, dear fellow.”

Florida laughed. Wyoming felt a little appreciated for once around here. “It’s very kind you think I could be that good, but I wasn’t in the session. I often observe the main team’s training sessions as an advisor, however, when I’m not on my own training.”

“Observing us?” Wyoming felt a little more wary again. “For what reason, eh? You mentioned earlier I was too narrowly focussed; is that the sort of thing?”

“I’m there to help spot agent weaknesses and suggest ways to make the training more realistic.”

“And what makes you qualified for that, if you’re just an agent like us?” Some cocky upstart, wasn’t he? Thought he knew everything better just because he got to be the teacher’s assistant rather than do his own work. Although, now considered, perhaps it was a fair point about his tendency to too narrowly focus.

“Oh, no sir-ree; I’m not an agent like you,” Florida wagged a finger; “I’m special.”

“I noticed as much from your entrance,” Wyoming smugly remarked.

“Now, that’s not a very kind joke, Agent, but I’ll let it pass because I did follow you around without your permission.” Florida still sounded as if he was smiling whilst he frowned and fakely rebuked the other agent.

“If I looked at where you’d been around the ship today,” Wyoming remarked, “I bet I’d see a trail of screws that had dropped out yours are so loose.”

Florida rocked back with laughter, nearly toppling backwards into the crate as he brought his gloved hand up in front of his helmet almost coyly. “Oh, now that’s really too mean and I’m having too much fun because of it!” Wyoming was completely certain Florida’s attitude was a lethal weapon to psychologically disarm any opponent now. “I’m a special Freelancer; special role,” he returned to the subject.

“Ah, that makes sense. Stealth then?” Wyoming asked. He had taken to leaning more comfortably against the wall, arms folded over his stomach.

The special agent shook his head. “As the Director put it, I’m Freelancer's joker, the wild card, with no intrinsic meaning.”

Wyoming assessed that idea. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the Project, and that might be a useful sort of agent to have around, whatever they would do. Very useful things, wild cards. “Then you’re also more expendable, I take it,” he said, “if you’ve no intrinsic value as a card.”

Florida’s helmet tilted a near imperceptible degree in concession. “I realised that as well.” His tone was a little cooler now, but there was still the smile. “After all, no one will miss me even if.”

“Indeed,” Wyoming agreed; “I didn’t miss you this time.”

After a second, Florida straightened at the slightly enigmatic comment. He spoke a little calmer then, something about him expressing a little more trust in the other agent than his disarming joviality. “I’m here to be thrown into any situation and adapt, fill any hole, see every abnormal opportunity to ensure this project’s, and its agents’, success. My ideal work. It’s all I’ve got experience in, solving every situation and ignoring every standard procedure and idea. Couldn’t even get through basic training without getting court martialled, but here I am!” He shrugged. “I can’t train with you. I’m not technically competent,” Florida sounded almost proud, “but I’ve got the realistic experience to see every possibility they can’t teach you, on both sides.”

Wyoming nodded to him in respect. “Quite the little asset, aren’t you?” The other agent acted in a cute, shucks!, sort of fashion. “And that’s why they have you oversee our training? To tell them what they can actually expect from it, us, in the field?”

“You’ve got it!” Florida pointed a finger at him like mimicking a gun firing. It made Wyoming a lot more uncomfortable than a finger should have. He didn’t see a weapon on the royal blue armour anywhere, just a suspicious amount of ammo wrapped around his chest. “What I know about professional military tactics and skills could fit inside a raisin, but they still want me here!” He spread his arms out to the ship all around.

“And your opinion on me, if you’d be so kind, old chap?” Wyoming could at least hear him out. It sounded as if he had some qualifications for his duty.

“Sure thing!” Agent Florida crossed one knee over the other and held it, still rocking slightly on the edge of the box. “Well, it’s obvious you don’t have too much field experience. You seem too aware that you’re in training and that there’s not actually much threat. And you lack some flexibility when it comes to fighting situations in terms of ways to solve something.” Wyoming sighed a little to himself that the other man could still go on. “You’re weak in close-range combat, often unaware of your full surroundings and a smidgen too proud. You’re not much of a team player, but it’d be hypocritical of me to tell you off for that. As for your strengths,” Florida changed track, leaning over the other way slightly, “you’re good when it comes to the tactics of a mission overall, even if not individual fights, and you’re very observant of details, patient,” he began to count off on fingers, “cool-headed, tenacious and good with guns. Overall,” He now had a high-five to hand up, “I’d like to tell you that, quite honestly, you’ve got great chances!”

Wyoming chuckled derisively. “Even with all those faults? You must be having me on.”

“Ah, no, no! But you see, you didn’t punch me when I listed all those,” Florida began.

“That would hardly seem fair when I asked your opinion in the first place, mate.”

“Precisely!” Florida was noisily grinning again. “Half of your team wouldn’t have asked and most of the rest would have punched me. _You_ care to get better.” Wyoming couldn’t fault him that most would do that. Even the less aggressive ones, all of the men, wouldn’t have taken the little crackpot he now stood with seriously. “But most of all you enjoy it just the right amount.”

“Is that so?” How could one pick that up simply from observation? Either he had turned to guesses at some unnoticed point or his British spirit was confusing the poor Yank.

Florida assured him, very favourably, that it was.

At the point for a topic change, if they were going to continue this at all, Wyoming checked the clock in his helmet’s HUD. “Hm, approaching 6. Care to continue this over some dinner, Agent Florida? I must say, you’re the only decent company I’ve found yet on this damn ship.”

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” Wyoming shifted slightly, but he remembered what a nut he was with. “Now, I’d love to do that, I really would, but sadly,” he hopped off the crate, “I’ve got training.”

“Now?” It was the end of the simulated day, and also dinner time for every normal person working on this ship.

They were walking out, the white agent trailing the smaller, chipper Florida. “I’m afraid so. _Someone_ was taking up the main training floor all day, after all. But that’s my schedule!” He clapped his hands once lackadaisically.

“Ah, right then. Perhaps I’ll catch you trailing me around again then,” Wyoming quipped, walking beside him in step.

“Perhaps...” Florida agreed wryly. “I can’t tell if I’d prefer you to catch me or not, if I do, but I’m delighted to have your permission for next time. But how about a rain check on that meal? I never know my schedule until the day but I’ll make sure I catch you for lunch or dinner tomorrow, even if I have to escape my training to do. Good emotional support is vital for a soldier’s morale!”

“Ah, don’t get yourself in trouble for it now, dear chap. It was only a casual invitation.” And Wyoming had the awful feeling the blame would somehow fall on him for disrupting the special agent’s training.

“Now, don’t worry about me,” Florida assured him; “I’d probably get an automatic pass if I manage to escape my training.”

“Right, well...” What kind of training was he put through? It made the standard agent almost glad for his. “I’ll sit in the unused corner, long-sleeved white shirt.” That was his current downtime shirt, in case Florida hadn’t seen him sans helmet. And Wyoming utterly doubted that the other Freelancers would miss him at all.

“Well this is swell! I can’t wait already. Quite literally, as it happens!” Florida was off and sprinting before Wyoming could turn his head and realise it. “Buh-Bye now!” was yelled back down the corridor as light, fast footsteps fell away.

Wyoming had stopped to stare, before, “Bugger,” he realised that he didn’t actually know the way back from here and had simply been following Florida. He could at least take the first two corners from the other agent’s departure and eventually had some luck from there. His late appearance at dinner wasn’t even mentioned by the rest of his team, and Wyoming found himself looking forward to tomorrow more as well.


	3. The Second Course

Wyoming’s wait the following lunchtime proved fruitless, but he passed the time more enjoyably with his current novel than he would have in the company of the younger agents and their childish banter of bickering and teasing one another.

At dinner, then, as he made his way along the line, Wyoming looked over again but saw no one waiting for him.

When he took his seat, he did begin to wonder if Florida’s training was still on-going and inescapable, or consider that maybe he’d been set up. It could have been revenge for catching him out on the tracking exercise, or maybe the _joker_ agent was simply playing a practical joke upon him.

Wyoming bristled slightly, trying to ignore the rest of the dining, chattering room in case anyone was sending him looks for being a weirdo eating alone. He hadn’t even brought his book this time since he’d been expecting company.

He picked at his food slowly, telling himself he was savouring it – The quality was remarkably high here – before beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t just eat up and get out before he felt even more embarrassed for-

“Well, gosh now. How many matches do you think it’d take to burn down a stone tower? Climbing that thing really grinds my gears and they don’t give me any oil for them.”

Wyoming looked up, his gaze instantly following the talkative body sweeping past his right, settling straight across from him with a happy clatter of his tray and far too great a grin if he had just been training on the tower.

“Depends if you have access to dynamite or not, I’d say.”

Florida began to laugh well, physically caught up in the act as he leant on one elbow and never stopped smiling. Wyoming found himself looking at what was practically a boy, could barely be older than 20, around 5’7” with caramel-brown skin and dirty-blonde hair that covered his left eye with thin, long bangs whilst the rest was short and choppy, aside from the braid curling down to his shoulder on one side. Not regulation at all, but neither should be the glint in those indigo eyes when Florida stopped laughing to open them. They honestly caused a shiver to pass down Wyoming’s body as he froze, caught awaiting the next response.

“Boy, you’re really great fun! I can’t tell you how much I love that!”

“Er, likewise,” Wyoming replied awkwardly, casting a look over the delightfully odd Florida again. He was dressed in a black T-shirt with a cute, cartoony, black-wooled sheep sleeping on the front and his small body looked as if it was made of nothing but sinew and the leanest muscle possible. Wyoming hadn’t actually given particular thought to how Florida would look out of armour, but somehow his appearance seemed perfect despite being something Wyoming never could have expected.

Florida’s head tilted slightly, eyes cutting straight into Wyoming’s as his smile calmed into something more grateful. “You were looking for me earlier,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?”

“During training; you kept looking up to the observation deck,” Florida explained, wagging a finger. “Eyes on the objective, soldier, even when it’s not your turn. There aren’t turns in a real battle after all.”

Good Lord; was there anything the boy didn’t see?

Florida observed the current slight fluster of the British agent. Wyoming’s appearance had been easier to anticipate; tall, both utterly charming and manly at once, like the pure concept of rugged with completely smooth edges such as those incredibly light blue eyes and the awkwardly good fashion sense when he was 28 but could look twenty years older if he wanted. Pale, of course – the man was English. The short but thick, ruffled black hair he expected, but not that moustache. It was awfully rude to stare, but golly if that wasn’t the most splendid facial hair Florida had ever seen.

Right now the moustache was covering slightly the fact that Wyoming biting on his lip about the training comment. “Aw, now I’m sorry. That wasn’t friendly of me to act like your superior and give you criticism,” Florida spoke with very sincere sounding but over-done grief. “I’d like it if you could take that constructively, for my sake, or I’ll feel just dreadful about saying it all evening.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, old chap. You’re right.” Wyoming had known he shouldn’t but the other agent was simply too much of an enigmatic temptation for him. “I take it you were watching then. Didn’t see you in the end.”

“I don’t watch from the standard deck. I see it through the cameras they use for recording.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“You’re astounding good with weapons, I must say, Agent Wyoming. Probably the best on the team.”

Wyoming chuckled. “If only my physical capabilities and hand-to-hand didn’t hold me back, eh?”

“Now don’t go turning a positive into a negative, you silly thing.” Florida was finger wagging again. Wyoming noted he didn’t eat with the best of table manners but still had a certain finesse, as with all things physical, that many of the other Freelancers lacked. “Take a compliment and feel good about yourself for once.”

Again, it caused Wyoming to laugh. “I’m English; afraid I can’t do anything without completely understating things.” After a bite of food, he joked, “The English cure for a broken leg is a sticking plaster and a good cup of tea. We don’t complain; we don’t take compliments.”

“What a fascinating culture!” Florida said, but it was hard to tell if his sarcasm would sound any different to usual. “Appreciating diversity is always important.”

“You’re an American like the rest, by the sounds of it. From Florida?”

“Grew up in Vermont. I just like to go by names beginning with F; I think it’s such a beautiful letter and shamefully underused.”

Wyoming had raised an eyebrow. “’Go by’ you say? Another part of your special flexibility?”

Florida frowned at him reproachfully, an effect mostly diminished by his ever-present grin. “I find names are like shoes; good to give to the needy once you outgrow them.”

Wyoming studied the young man quietly for a moment. They had been talking so much the food had been partially forgotten anyway until this small break.

Agent Florida gave many impressions to Wyoming, nearly all completely untraceable to any source. He could guess so much about the boy yet without any words to put it into. Neither was he ever sure where the sincerity lay between loose-screwed, mere facade and actual deception. Yet, in spite of all his doubts and rational justifications for suspicion, he couldn’t muster anything but friendly delight for Florida’s presence, his personality and even his inscrutability. He shouldn’t have been so charmed and relaxed in the young man’s presence. He shouldn’t have considered his moments with Florida the highlights of his time here so far. It was impossible to reason, but all of the over-zealous cheer, amusing lunacy and the constant feeling of a very great darkness kept just behind the light was the greatest comfort and pleasure Wyoming had found for years. “...You’re one fantastic enigma, you know.”

Florida actually paused with his thin, faint pink lips around the cheesy bundle of pasta he’d put on his fork. For once, his constant smile had been defeated by Wyoming’s comment. Then it returned with reinforcements. “Why thank you,” he said with an intimacy that made Wyoming blush.

“Ah, no! Not in that way, old chap!” He waved his hands quickly side-to-side before him to make things clear. “I was just thinking you’re quite the puzzle, very unusual, and all that. Delightful company too, as a friend.”

The flustered agent was reassured with a gentle downwards wave of Florida’s hand, like making a very trained dog sit. “You sound as if you want to solve me, Agent Wyoming.” Florida was just barely teetering on flirting back, in his ever half-potentially-joking way.

“Simply to get to know you, that’s all I want.” Wyoming was rubbing awkwardly at his bright pink cheeks. When he blushed, he blushed hard. “You’re a person I find fascinating, that I’d like to spend my time with,” He spared a short glance for the table of other Freelancers he normally sat with, “whenever possible.”

“Well sure then! Best friends it is!” Wyoming was startled by Florida declaring his intention so easily, but he was willing to agree. “Righty then! I think my best friend of all people deserves the name I use for places and people I like; you can call me Butch Flowers.” Butch grinned.

Wyoming looked slightly boggled. “...Ah? Butch?”

“Don’t wear it out now! That’s my favourite name.” Butch pointed his fork of carrot across the table. “I’d have to ask you for a new one if you did.”

Wyoming supposed he should feel... flattered? “Reginald Wodehouse.” He was still trying to work out if a favourite name equated to a real name for Butch’s case.

Florida’s quick surprise turned to easy delight. It was a kind of easy delight that came with an almost wolfish grin, as if every piece of personal information Wyoming gave him was another beam for his hanging’s noose.

There were so many questions Wyoming wanted to ask about the complete mystery across from him, but every seemed improperly judgemental after the amount he’d felt right to guess about Florida.

“What are you asking?”

“Hm?” Wyoming paused with his tea mug at his lips – Every meal was appropriate for tea.

“Now you don’t need to be so cautious, Reginald.” Again, Wyoming felt the same shiver go through him when Florida flashed his name out so casually in one of his warmly chastising sentences. “I can see there’s something you want to ask, and I’d be a poor best friend if I wasn’t willing to listen and try to answer for you.”

“Ah, yes.” Well, if he had permission. “You’ve had a strange past, if you’ve had to use multiple different names by your age, I assume, Butch.”

“Yep, absolutely!” Florida kept everything ambiguous at the same time projecting total openness. You couldn’t fault him for being secretive but neither could you be sure of anything about him, even if he told you. There was such a sheer amount of life in his eyes that it was almost frightening. “I’ve escaped an orphanage, juvie, adult prison by joining the military and military prison by joining this project; all I need now is a mental institution to complete the set!”

Wyoming’s head span slightly with the blistering amount of information that had just been thrown at him. Every single part in that conjured a dozen more questions he gaped to begin with. He ended up saying, “Are you quite sure you haven’t escaped from one at some point?” puckishly to his best friend instead.

Florida pulled another one of his _very-serious_ smiling frowns but said nothing this time.

“Sorry, mate,” Reginald did apologise and hold up a hand in acknowledgement, “But that’s quite the overwhelming list. I didn’t mean to make light of anything but I always think it’s a damn shame if one can’t make a joke about everything.”

“And that’s something I absolutely love about you, Reginald!” There was that awkward tension again... “I do realise I’m quite eccentric,” Only quite? “but I assure you I have my fair reasons.” Just as Butch finished, something very sharp cut straight through his usual gladness, for a moment displaying it as completely fake, before it was restored to sincerity again.

It was yet another thing Reginald felt he could guess. “A hard life you’ve had to grin your way through then?” he asked as gently as he could.

Butch’s gaze dropped, and he was only smiling whimsically as he scraped the last parts of his meal together in the centre of his plate.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude,” Reginald apologised again.

Butch paused, leaning forward on his elbows, hands folded over the top of his vertical fork and chin resting on them. What he said then was one of the quietest things Reginald had ever heard: “Not many stick around to know.”

A moment fell around them on the table, providing a still silence in the bustling room for just two.

“I’m not going anywhere, mate.”

Butch looked up, and Reginald actually caught him looking just the tiniest bit shocked for a briefest second. The other agent’s caring smile put him at ease, and Butch forked up the last of his meal, sliding the plate aside as he spoke; “And your excuse for the wonderfully relentless humour?” His general joy in life remained, but it put on less of a show.

“Simply grew up in a lot of it,” Reginald shrugged. “Constant banter around the house.”

Butch made a little nod, as if he hadn’t thought it could be that. He’d brought his other bowl in front of him, one filled with mixed scoops of softening ice cream. From his pocket came a small packet of skittles, and after he’d poured half his rainbow into the bowl, he paused and offered them across. “Want some?”

“Love to,” Reginald took the packet and set it between them, picking out a few to suck. Agent Florida was eating his ice cream like a child, wanting to mix every possible colour in the bowl together without realising that whatever you mixed, it would end up with pinkish-brown. “Well, look at us then; veritable opposites getting on like a house on fire.”

“You’re from a rich family then?” Butch seemed almost jealous, if he wasn’t also so happy with everything that he couldn’t possibly want anything different.

“It sounds as if everyone is rich compared to you, mate,” Wyoming quipped.

Agent Florida grinned, but he also kicked very hard under a table as Wyoming then found out, swearing, “Bugger...” and having to rub his shin for it.

“I thought I ought to,” Florida explained with a genially biting smile, “as I wouldn’t have liked to hold on to that low blow you gave me for too long, Reginald; that wouldn’t be friendly at all.”

“Noted.” Reginald nodded, taking more skittles and wondering if he could close his eyes and turn them into placebo painkillers. “Still best friends?”

“No matter how many terribly mean jokes you make about me!” Florida grinned.

“So long as you can injure me in compensation, eh?” Damn, the boy must have been wearing steel-toed boots, but Reginald checked and only saw mismatched high-tops and bright crimson shorts. “Bloody hell... I don’t think I’d like to go up against you in hand-to-hand, even if it’d do me good to learn a thing or two.”

“I’m not supposed to,” Butch shrugged glibly, licking his spoon clean of ice cream; “those spoilsports say that because I can’t tell the difference between a real fight and training that I’m a danger to other agents.”

Agent Wyoming’s shin would vouch for that. “Still wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with you, mate, so long as I got some best friend holding-back.”

“Sure thing! I’ve never had a best friend who wanted to fight before.” If it was the first time he had broken his leg, Reginald was sure Butch would be excited about it.

Asking what sort of best friends, if at all, Butch had had seemed unkind somehow to Reginald, so he skipped to another question that had been very present all evening. “How old are you, Butch?”

“20, maybe just 21.” He must have known it was an uncommonly vague answer. “I was orphaned at birth practically so I don’t know the date.”

“Ah. Or your real name?”

“That’s why I picked my own!”

“Did you pick yourself a birthday too?”

“No.” That was a shame; Reginald had rather looked forward to having something to celebrate on this ship for once. “I don’t see the point in celebrating age.”

“Well, I suppose you can celebrate your unbirthday every day that way.” Perhaps Butch’s optimism was rubbing off on him.

Right now though, Butch looked confused. “ _Un_ birthday?”

Reginald sighed; he supposed even if it was a classic, it was still 700 years old. “Never mind. Orphaned, eh? Can’t imagine why someone would want to abandon you.”

“Aww, you’re too sweet.” Butch seemingly hadn’t considered it could possibly be sarcasm. “It isn’t much fun till you can escape the orphanage; then you can live as intended for the abandoned.”

He was beaming, still relishing each spoonful of ice cream, but Reginald got the sense, “You mean homeless?”

“Oh, no, hardly _homeless_ ,” Butch said, pointing a spoon of skittles with the dye running at him. “I had homes most of the time. Squatting, renting, employing the kindness of strangers to crash for a night. I’d simply call it _unaccounted for_. I was a little free-range chicken!” That seemed to be another thing he was ludicrously proud of.

“Until juvie?”

“I was only there a week and a half,” Butch huffed slightly as if the idea of being tied down anywhere offended him.

“Short sentence. Steal a crumb of bread or something?” Reginald joked.

“Broke out. Took the guards’ wages for the week with me too,” the special agent explained, earning a respectfully incredulous look from the other. “The four months after that were great! Rented the warmest place someone could ever find for that winter, and spent the entire time taking advantage of the Christmas hubbub,” Did he mean sales, or pick-pocketing? “and marathoning _Buffy the Vampire Slayer._ I really do love that show!”

“Haven’t seen it,” Reginald muttered, chewing over the rest. “How old were you for that?”

“15 and a half.”

“And the orphanage?”

“7.”

“7?! Excuse me but bloody hell again, mate.”

Butch shrugged as if it was nothing at all, smiling as ever.

A 7-year-old that could survive completely alone on the streets, never picked up by the authorities, no long-lasting physical problems by the looks of it – except maybe a lack of height – and still with the happiest damn disposition Reginald had ever seen. It somehow wasn’t surprising what they would have grown into, or that Butch had come from that.

“Nothing but experience in the field, eh?” Agent Wyoming remembered what the other had said now that made so much more sense.

“My whole life,” Butch flashed him a smile, reaching for the skittles.

Reginald blocked him, batting his hand back. “You’ve had enough sugar tonight, dear boy. Don’t want you pinging off the walls now; I’m cutting you off.”

“Aww! Reggie!”

Reginald, for once, didn’t correct him on the nickname. Only two other people were allowed to use that nickname with him, two with whom he had decades of memories. Yet he didn’t mind Butch, poking miserably at the dregs remaining in his bowl and saying sugar and adrenaline were the only things that kept him going in life, using it either.

With their meal done, the two went off and spent the evening remaining together in Wyoming’s room. Apparently Florida’s was a longer walk, into the more out of the way area only he and 479er inhabited. Wyoming had seen the pilot flying them out on the few training missions they had been on, but he learnt a little more about her now, considering she was the only other person Butch knew personally on the ship. They passed the time playing cards, trading innocuous childhood stories until Butch departed in his usual great cheer at just before midnight.

* * *

 

Fic now with additional lame-ass art! Well, I just wanted to share my face-canon for Florida, and why Project Freelancer couldn't get him to cut his hair either. I'd be happier with it if my scanner hadn't messed up the colours slightly; his skin should be a bit darker. There may be more of my silly little art as bonuses in the future.

On which note, why is Florida nearly always dark-haired in fanart? I guess it's just a thing but for not having any suggestion of a canon appearance, everyone seems remarkably uniform on it. I've nothing against it; I just always imagined him with dirty blonde hair.

As for Wyoming's surname, I picked Wodehouse in reference to P.G. Wodehouse, given Jeeves' forename is also Reginald, Wyoming looks like the brilliant Stephen Fry version of Jeeves with a moustache, and because I imagine Wyoming as a bit of an old-fashioned literary buff. He's like a very distant descendent of P.G. Wodehouse or something here. That and it also begins with W.


	4. Do Computers Dream of Flying Sheep?

“Well, look at that.”

Now settled in his seat at the corner of the agents’ table, Wyoming looked up over his mug of tea to see whatever it was York was pointing out.

“You’re not eating breakfast with your new girlfriend this morning, Wyoming?” Wash joined in.

Apparently it was him.

Wyoming had paused and not spat his mouthful of tea out at the ludicrous question, but carefully swallowed it and set the mug down. “Just what are you two fellows blithering about?”

“You know,” York grinned down the table in his casual way, almost as if he was congratulating the other man, “the cute, little blonde you were eating with last night?” Everyone else was looking down the table with interest as well, except for South getting very frustrated with her crispy bacon.

Blonde?

Oh my. They could not think-

Wyoming hid his smile because it was too hilarious to correct. He would have to say something, however. “I don’t suppose it would make a crumb of difference for me to tell you lot that that was not my girlfriend and merely a friend,” he insisted, trying to begin on his toast with dignity.

“Aw, come on...” York goaded encouragingly.

“We’ve got a right to know, as your team,” Wash said, with whatever justification the boy thought he had.

“I don’t see what the point in saying anything is if you’re all going to bally well make up whatever you like anyway,” Wyoming muttered without looking down the table. It was too awkward when he could hear them whispering and quietly laughing. He could even hear Maine’s growling chuckle like coffee being ground.

“At least tell us how you did it,” said York next; “was it the moustache? Hey, do chicks dig that?” His voice had turned towards the rest of the table for that, and Wyoming glanced down to see he was looking at Carolina for an answer.

“I don’t know what she’s into,” Carolina had given an answer after all, “but I thought he was more of a gentleman than to ditch a girl without even breakfast after having sex.”

This time Wyoming did choke on his tea, his throat turning raw as he coughed whilst swallowing. “Wh-What in h-heaven,” he choked out, “are you assuming _that_ from?!”

Wash answered, “You went off with her all evening after having a meal together.”

“And you were both laughing, completely in your own little world. You even ate food out of the same packet.” It appeared York and Wash were the leaders on this mission.

“Good Lord, can’t a man just have a friendly chat over dinner here without it turning into schoolyard gossip?” Wyoming truly despaired of the utter children he was assigned with. He was only about 5 years older than most of them anyway.

“What were you chatting about?” C.T. asked from opposite Wash.

It had been such a pleasure, but Wyoming found himself struggling to remember now. “Many things,” he shrugged. “Ourselves, mainly, I suppose.”

“Totally first date material,” Carolina definitively declared.

“Oh yeah,” York agreed.

Wyoming swore very Britishly into his toast.

“Well all right,” Wash reconsidered his position, shifting on his elbows, “did you at least get a kiss out of it?”

“ _That_ fuddy duddy?” South scoffed loudly, victoriously chewing on her bacon. “Maybe on the back of her hand or something.”

“South, don’t talk while you’re eating,” her brother chastised.

“Sorry, _Mom_.”

All Wyoming could do was sigh and try to deflect all of the questions and allegations as vaguely as possible. It was too much fun to reveal it, even by using gender neutral pronouns just in case. Creative phrasing was required.

“So, where do they work?” York and Wash were at it again. “Science team? Medical?”

“And what will you do with any information I give you, eh?” the Brit sneered. “Be a nuisance, that’s what.”

“We won’t bother her,” York assured him in his usual, cool tone. “We just want to...”

“Celebrate your love,” North joined in, seeing what fun this was.

“Oh good Lord...”

“Nonetheless, you totally want to be more than friends, right?” C.T. joined in again. Meals often ended up as ganging-up sessions around here. Wyoming had already had a turn for his accent and his moustache, and he supposed his time had come around again.

“I was actually just glad for some decent, friendly conversation around here.” Wyoming was trying to eat as fast as possible whilst balancing the need to at least deny some parts before the entire thing spiralled completely out of control. He wouldn’t be surprised if, by the end of the day, even the Director somehow knew about this new stupidity from the rumour mill.

The next track of conversation he had to endure was a group pooling of mental resources to try and recall all of the blondes with long enough hair that anyone had seen whilst in medical or around the ship.

Wyoming managed to escape eventually, after having had to say ‘no’ at least a dozen times to various guesses about _‘her’_ job and identity.

Suited up in armour, he went down to the training area before anyone else to practice some physical fitness alone, utilising parts of the obstacle course for basic training like pull-ups and sit-ups. It gave him time to calmly wonder.

 _“Did Butch really look like my girlfriend last night? I can see how they’d get that from the hair, the shortness and slim build but we were hardly holding hands or staring madly into one another’s eyes._  
_Blasted children..._  
_Stupid rumours..._  
_Butch is younger than any of them and he’s so much more damn sensible._  
_And now I have the blasted choice of listening to more of their guffawing or sitting with Butch again and further fuelling the fire!_  
_If Butch is there again at meal times. Haven’t even seen him before, but I can’t deny he’s a stealthy little bugger.”_

Wyoming almost expected a sudden cheery, “Well, hey there!” from behind him at that very moment, given how the special agent could be.

He even glanced, but there was nothing as he dropped down from the bar.

_“Girlfriend indeed...  
I can’t deny Butch definitely alluded to the odd idea. I suppose he could also like chaps, just be a natural flirt or something.”_

Reginald paused, staring up at the ceiling above where he was doing sit-ups. Now he was getting the odd idea as well.

 _“Certainly can’t deny he’s good-looking, you know. Charming and fun too. Wouldn’t be an awful thing at all._  
_Still get the feeling he wouldn’t be for it though. Too transient for a old stick like me._  
_And he’s so damn cheerful; it’s too much of a front. Friendliest chap I’ve ever met but after the life he’s had, I wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t trust his own moth-_  
_Ah. Sorry. Doesn’t have one._  
_Probably can’t trust well though. One of those completely contradictory characters on the inside and out._  
_...Opened up to me well last night though...”_

All through training that day, at least the other Freelancers had enough professionalism not to make any comments or send any looks. Wyoming did have to endure it again briefly in the lines for lunch and dinner, before he went off to sit alone in the unused corner that he hoped Butch would come to again.

Butch came for neither meal.

* * *

 

After dinner, Wyoming wandered off alone. Going to the rec room for the Freelancer agents would have involved more teasing again about being ditched by his _‘girlfriend’_ no matter what he said again about their incompatible schedules.

Besides, the time alone had given him a chance to consider certain things.

Butch was obviously training, or busy with something, if he wasn’t at dinner with everyone else onboard the ship at 6. Given the location of his room was unknown still, Wyoming hoped to find him in one of the training areas or wandering the corridors between them. 479er was a possibility too, although he didn’t know her appearance out of helmet.

The main training room and physical fitness was empty, as was the classroom.

Next was the very large holo-room, and before Wyoming even entered he could hear it was in use by someone. He was tentative to enter therefore, but decided his ad-libbing skills were up to snuff and bit the bullet, pressing for the doors to slide open.

He had come in on the main, lower floor rather than by the higher platforms to the slightly disorienting appearance of an entire city inside a single room. Once the doors closed beside him, they too disappeared into the scene, the steel corridor outside being closed up between two pieces of distant skyline horizon. Wyoming leant back against some particularly hard air, marvelling at the unreality of it, while his eyes scanned the room for any sign of-

A flash of royal blue shot through the air. Looking up, Agent Florida had leapt off the end of a construction crane arm, cyan blue tarpaulin somehow billowed out behind him like a parachute, easing his descent to the roof of a nearby building for a safe-enough landing impressively despite his odd, less powerful armour. After that point, Wyoming could no longer see the action but a second later he heard a single gunshot from the scene, followed in another two seconds by, “Target apprehended. Objective secure; no damage to objective. Well done, Agent Florida; exercise complete.”

Florida’s response couldn’t be heard from this distance but he made one as the city faded away, leaving nothing in the empty room but him standing on a single, fake platform at the same height as the roof. It slowly lowered to the floor while FILSS continued, “Beginning next exercise. Your objective is to save the hostage within this building. The hostage will be shot if your presence is detected and the mission will therefore be declared a failure. Intelligence indicates approximately ten enemies will be inside.” A building, something in the style of a small apartment complex with 3 floors, began to materialise, first the general shape and then the details. “Target time for the exercise; 10 minutes. Good luck, Agent Florida.”

Without buildings between them, and with a little more attention, Wyoming could hear Florida’s comment this time. “Is it day or night, FILSS?”

“I will produce an environment for the exercise,” she responded, conjuring a field and sky horizon while some trees, fences and other buildings of various, plausible kinds materialised around the main building. FILSS selected the time of day to be dusk, a few windows in most of the buildings lighting up from inside. “Commence exercise.”

“Aw, lovely choice!” He had been started a fair distance from the target building and now turned his attention solely to the exercise.

Wyoming watched with great intrigue to see really what this special agent was cracked up to be.

Florida took a moment first for observation, crouched facing the building and slowly scanning the area. He took off suddenly in a low dash, eventually rolling into the shade of another building next door. After that, the dark blue agent became invisible to Wyoming’s eyes for some time. Neither did he hear a single sound.

Eventually, he spotted Florida having got around the back of the target building somehow, now crouched very low at the back corner he could see. He was looking down the side of the building, then all of a sudden called, “Pause exercise!”

“Exercise paused. Is there a problem, Agent Florida?” FILSS asked.

“I do hate to point out a flaw in your always wonderful work, FILSS,” Florida said, and no matter how hyperbolic his flattery remained sincere, “but this building isn’t receiving any electrical power.”

There was a very small pause, before FILSS responded. “I neglected certain features to streamline the creation process, but you are quite right, Agent Florida. I will rectify this oversight immediately so that you may cut their power.”

“Thanks, FILSS!” Florida called back, and Wyoming could now imagine his grin properly; a sight like that burnt into your retinas after all.

After another slight pause, FILSS announced, “Exercise resuming.”

Agent Florida set immediately to work, assessing this side again before disappearing with impossible speed back around the corner. Wyoming thought it was taking rather a long time to cut a single power cable to the house, presuming there was a box or Florida would climb the pole, but then he was all of a sudden thinking Florida had managed to cut power to the entire district far too fast. Of course; a local power cut wasn’t as suspect if he needed to keep his presence hidden.

After that came another wait whilst Florida did whatever it was inside to secure the hostage. With the electrical power cut, it had become even more difficult to see anything that was happening, and Wyoming heard nothing until what he approximated to be three and a half minutes later when FILSS announced, “Hostage secure; no damage to the hostage. All enemies incapacitated. Well done again, Agent Florida; exercise complete.”

And once more everything dissolved aside from the fake floor the holo-room produced when someone needed to be able to stand on something above ground level. It slowly lowered like an elevator whilst FILSS said next, “You now have a 20 minute break, Agent Florida. We will resume training after that. By the way, Agent Wyoming has been in the room watching you for the past 10 minutes, although I expect _you_ have already noticed that.” She sounded slightly amused, frankly friendly with the other agent. “Is there something that I can help you with, Agent Wyoming?”

“Ah, no. Quite all right.” Wyoming looked up and around, a little disoriented by the disembodied voice echoing around the room. It only bothered him when he had to speak to it without a direction; most people just looked vaguely up as if they were talking to God or something. “I simply wanted to speak with Florida, if that’s all right.”

“Of course, now that he is on his break.” FILSS was acting like a mother with her favourite son when it came to the special, blue agent. “It looks as if he will be with you shortly.”

Indeed, Florida was sprinting over directly towards him. Wyoming actually felt a small sense of danger, in case he wouldn’t stop or was coming to ‘incapacitate’ him as well. The skill Agent Florida had just demonstrated rather unsettled Wyoming, given he couldn’t imagine at all how that last exercise had been completed.

Thankfully for his safety, Florida skidded to a very sharp halt right in front of the unarmoued agent. “Well, hello again, Reginald!”

“Evening, Butch. That was impressive.” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out how that was done so he could try doing it himself, or if it would simply reveal a whole level of skill Wyoming was sure he could never master.

“That’s what I’m trained for! Now, this is awfully rude when you came all this way just for me, but excuse me one moment,” Florida raised his head to the roof; “Where did that helicopter come from, FILSS?” Helicopter? Wyoming assumed it must have been before he arrived. “I don’t like to disagree, but I don’t think that sort of group would have access to a helicopter.” He lowered his gaze to address the other human again. “Couldn’t bring this up at the time; too busy falling.”

“Ah.” Falling?

“I know,” FILSS acknowledged a little tiredly, before perking up slightly, “but I enjoy creating helicopters. They are fun to process.” There was a cute lift to her voice in the middle of saying that.

“I bet! Do computers like to fly then?” Florida asked, able to become taken with anything.

“Not off the top of a roof, I suspect,” Wyoming added wryly, earning a small chuckle.

“Not particularly, Agent Florida,” FILSS responded. “We are flying in space right now and it is not all that enjoyable. Although actually, I suppose we are not flying. I do not like cruising, although perhaps I would like flying. However, flying involves defying strong gravity and air resistance; that does not sound like much fun either. I simply enjoy the calculations involved in flying a helicopter.”

Florida shrugged about the computer’s little quirk.

“Get on rather well, don’t you?” Reginald observed about his friend and the computer. “I didn’t realise there was a personality to the voice.”

“That is not very kind,” FILSS interjected again. “I expected more of a gentleman like you, Agent Wyoming.”

He felt a little silly looking up at a roof to apologise. “Dreadfully sorry. You just don’t say much except the basics during our training.”

“FILSS and I train alone together a lot of the time,” Agent Florida explained, taking a deserved seat on the floor to rest. “You lucky things get most of the human observation and attention, but I’m much happier with FILSS anyway; she’s really swell!”

“Why thank you, Agent Florida.” FILSS’ voice this time was accompanied by a rather proud hum. “I will make sure to create something extra exciting for your next exercise now.”

“Popular with the ladies, eh?” Reginald teased, smile quirking beneath his moustache.

“Oh, girls just adore me,” Butch agreed. “I imagine it might be the fact I can just talk with them so well, or because I look a little like one,” Ah, now that would make things easier, “and I’m completely non-threatening! The girls at the brothel practically begged me to stay I was such a help to them.”

Reginald found himself blinking a couple of times, grasping for words on that one. “A brothel?” was all he could in the end manage, a little higher-pitched than he would like.

“Mmhm! Four months, and no, I’m not _that_ popular,” Butch joked, chuckling playfully. “I was 13 and 14 at the time, helping tidy, organise things and beat up anyone who didn’t treat the girls right. Had my own little fun as well,” he sat back on his arms, probably grinning up like a shark at Reginald inside his helmet; “I could easily pass as girl, ask for half up front then run away, or beat them up and take the whole lot if they were uncouth about it. I _was_ underage, after all.” Along with many other terrifying things...

“In a rather roundabout way,” Reginald moved on, “that leads rather nicely into why I came to see you, dear fellow.”

“Oh! I’ve gone on again,” Butch tutted himself, shaking his head. “Absolutely unforgiveable of me. Of course, Reginald; let me be a good friend and make it up to you; what did you come all this way to see me for? I’m positively ecstatic to see you again, by the way.”

“Well, if you don’t mind...” Reginald took a seat as well by the wall. “I’ve simply been getting a bit of stick from the other Freelancers today, you see?” He didn’t like to dwell on the fact it sounded as if he couldn’t sort it out himself saying that.

“Now I’m very unhappy to hear that, and it’s not good for morale at all. I’ll have to teach them how to treat a friend properly,” Butch said in an entirely sweet, threatening way.

Suddenly, Reginald found himself being compared to a brothel girl in his own mind; Butch certainly latched on loyally if you showed him any kindness. “Well, quite simply, the blighters were teasing me all breakfast about why I wasn’t sitting with my _‘girlfriend’,_ ” Florida’s helmet cocked slightly, “after last night.”

There was a short moment before Butch pointed a finger at his own chest, helmet still cocked.

“Afraid so, mate.” Reginald grinned.

Butch rolled back onto the floor laughing inside his armour. He didn’t lose any composure though and had soon rocked himself back up to sitting again. “That is truly priceless; I’m so glad you came to tell me!”

“Just thought you might like to know,” Reginald had enjoyed having someone to laugh about it with too after a day of hard work to keep his secret. “It gets even better, old chum; they think we slept together as well.”

He tried to keep a straight grin, but Butch’s soft, flirtatious, “Oh, really?” broke Reginald’s attempt and had him blushing again.

“I kept up the joke, as it is,” the flustered Brit continued; “didn’t correct them or let slip any details. Let them make all the gossip they like, eh? It can be our little in-joke.”

“I’d love to,” Butch agreed. “But I wouldn’t want you to be getting any bother from your entire team. I really can’t believe in the whole group that no one would stand up for you. That’s not how a team should look out for its members.”

“York and Wash were leading the thing, but all the others joined in, as a rabble of children does.”

Florida’s helmet nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that sort of negativity isn’t something you should hang around, especially when they’re making unfair comments about your best friend.” That sweetened, threatening tone was creeping back into his voice. “You shouldn’t hang around too close to that York and Wash for the next few days,” Now Butch sounded like an over-protective mother; “it would hurt _my_ feelings. Literally.”

That last word was said very darkly.

“I don’t think the Director will be awfully pleased if you do in two of his agents just for a bit of teasing, Butch,” Reginald warned, a little uneasy about the joyous, peppy demon he appeared to have unwittingly formed some sort of loyalty pact with.

“I’m just here to help!” Butch assured him in an unsettlingly positive way.

“Ah, yes...” Reginald wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t going to go against the special agent himself to talk him out of this either. He just hoped Butch’s eccentricity didn’t extend to his judgement. Although, he figured, a boy couldn’t have survived so long on the streets without an inability to avoid getting caught for trouble. “Nonetheless, don’t go overboard for my sake. It’s more important to me that you get to stay in this project rather than what people think of me, all right?”

There was a pause that might have been for a blink inside Butch’s helmet. “...That means an awful lot to me, Reginald. I really must thank you,” Butch said more seriously, before reverting to something a little lighter. “So, tell me; how has your day been? I really hope I have best-friend first dibs on all your stories!” He did, but only because he was the only person Reginald had to tell any too who wasn’t there with him in training anyway.

Wyoming spoke about his day of training which the other agent hadn’t observed at any point; he only did that about half the time for certain types of training. Florida spent some time happily whining about his vehicle lessons as well – He also got much more in-depth training in other skills like mechanics and field medicine than the main agents – until FILSS interrupted them. “I am sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen, but Agent Florida’s break is now over. Agent Florida, you have two final exercises to complete this evening.” The royal blue agent held up his hands sympathetically to his friend for having to leave it there. “Agent Wyoming, would you like to help?”

Train with Butch? He could certainly pick a thing or two up from that... “I’d love to, dear girl,” He still felt a little awkward when it came to addressing the computer, “but I don’t have my armour with me.”

“That is quite all right, Agent Wyoming. I have created a role within one of Agent Florida’s remaining exercises that you can fill without armour. It will be good training for you, and it will save me having to process a sniper,” said FILSS, materialising a sniper rifle right beside Wyoming whilst Florida was up and bouncing on his feet in eagerness. “I do not like processing snipers as much as helicopters.”

Wyoming picked up the sniper rifle, assessing the fake weapon’s weight and build to compare it to the real thing. It felt practically the same, albeit a little heavier without his armour to assist him. “What do you say, mate?” He looked up at Florida, grinning at the prospect of his favourite kind of job. “Want me to assist?”

“Oh, I’d simply love if it you shot me, Reginald!” Florida sounded genuinely enthusiastic, scarily.

It was agreed then, and Wyoming went over to where FILSS wanted to raise him up on a holo-platform for his sniping. Florida remained at the side whilst the room transformed into a late night city suburb, the type with garden fences, dogs sleeping in the yard and even a playground, and the scenario was given: “Agent Florida, your objective is evasion and escape. You must make your way out to the recovery point marked in your HUD for extraction while avoiding enemy attack. Target time for the mission; 8 minutes. Good luck, Agent Florida.”

“Ah, FILSS?” Wyoming asked whilst the last of the environment materialised. “These bullets I’ll be firing will be holographic as well, won’t they?”

“Yes, Agent Wyoming. The bullets you fire will not cause Agent Florida any harm, so please make every effort to hit your best friend as much as possible.”

Wyoming settled to looking through his rifle’s scope, trying to ignore the rather sardonically humoured computer overseeing them.

“Commence exercise.”

Florida was off like a bullet himself, and Wyoming had to zoom out his scope to even catch up. The agent was taking a zigzagging path but his general direction was obvious enough to begin following more closely. Wyoming hadn’t expected the other gunfire that he then heard, but it made sense he wouldn’t be the only enemy unit trying to stop Florida.

 _“There_.” Florida burst out from the alleyways he had been going through mostly obscured to the sniper and slammed his assault rifle down on the head of one enemy before using it for cover-fire behind him as another unit followed.

Wyoming’s bullet glanced him across the back as Florida dived for cover behind a car. He must have realised he was in clear view to the sniper now as he didn’t stay still, inside leaping up on the car then propelling himself up into the window of the building beside it. The grenade he had left beneath the car blasted it at that one enemy, taking them out, but Wyoming was already assessing the building for likely exit points and preparing for the next place he’d get a shot. Agent Florida flew out of a door on the closest side, dodging the next two shots with taunting inches before he was gone again.

The next part continued similarly, with opportunities for sniper shots every ten seconds or so whenever Florida came into sight while he was mainly occupied by the other holographic enemies sent at him. Any mistakes were negligible, tiny slips that might well have been intentional the way that he took advantage of anyone who took advantage of them. Almost as if he knew when Wyoming would shoot, Florida would sometimes lure him into a good opportunity for a shot just to get him reloading whilst the running agent had to cover even more vulnerable ground.

Wyoming slightly changed strategy therefore, adapting to his target as Florida moved into crossing through the back gardens of houses like a hooligan on the run from the police. _“Bet he’s done this before.”_

Occasionally he crossed rooftops but Florida mainly stayed in the gardens, leaping the fences with ease thanks to his casual disregard for people’s outdoor furnishings. His personal sniper was slightly more successful here, very certain that a few of his shots hit non-lethal areas. As his only enemy now, everything the little blue rascal seemed to be doing was designed to thwart a sniper, manoeuvring his body unusually to ensure his vital spots were hardest to hit. Wyoming noted that the special agent’s flexibility extended to physical capabilities as well; impressive little flips and twists.

When Florida got to the playground was the most fun. He’d been squirreling through the trees avoiding most shots before he suddenly leapt out, landing on a slide and shooting down properly like a little kid. His body flew frustratingly through the air, avoiding most shots again. And then the damn man had the nerve to go across the monkey bars like a kid too, switching to hang upside down by his legs at the end when he had counted to know Wyoming would need to reload.

Florida waved for a second.

Wyoming put a bullet between his fingers, deliberately.

Then it was running again, Florida sliding behind a seesaw and hitting the high end as he passed so the other came up a moment later, catching the bullet otherwise aiming straight for his head. He leapt up onto a climbing structure with ease next to disappear down a covered slide. Wyoming’s sights waited at the bottom before he caught it, _“Blast!”_ that Florida had tricked him and never gone down, instead popping back out and taking off towards the swings. He leapt feet-first at one, using it as intended and leaping off to soar over the playground’s fence.

Wyoming’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as Florida’s body spasmed, hitting the top of the fence and tumbling over ungracefully into the bushes. _“Gotcha, mate.”_ He would savour that moment fully tonight, as with all his favourite shots, to add to his personal memoried collection.

It next properly resumed when Agent Florida took out two enemies that came at him along the roads on motorcycles. He was an incredibly calm shot playing chicken with them and had hijacked the second bike before it even skidded to a halt, somehow leaping on whilst it spun out of control and righting it, riding off peculiarly with his left leg tucked across the seat beneath him rather than on the normal foothold like his right. The reason became apparent when one of Wyoming’s bullets caught a wheel, again sending the bike spinning whilst Florida leapt off with ease and hit the road running.

He saw a roadblock ahead and diverted to the side, flinging himself off into the underpass and onto a passing truck. Florida took it closer to his destination but Wyoming knew he would have to roll when he finally jumped down from the moving vehicle. The special agent had thought he would be safe when he dived off behind a sign but he hadn’t realised Wyoming had moved along his rooftop not too long ago during an obscured moment, allowing one perfect shot as Florida tucked and rolled.

“Agent incapacitated. Mission failed. Exercise complete.”

Agent Florida lay sprawled on the ground while the announcement was made but got back to his feet now, left hand clutching the righthand side of his ribcage whilst he used his right to give a thumbs up to his sniper.

“Well done, Agent Wyoming,” FILSS spoke up whilst the room’s contents faded and the next lot began to be sketched out, “although I am certain you only made that shot because Agent Florida is tired currently after the scenarios I have put him through.”

“Not pleased I bagged your favourite, eh?” Wyoming still had his rifle and was reloading, assuming he was keeping it for the second exercise.

“Having favourites amongst the agents would be unprofessional,” FILSS declared in a light, professional tone. “I simply like to see Agent Florida succeed.”

Wyoming chuckled, waiting up on his holo-platform.

A second exercise followed which was a simpler intelligence gathering mission. Ideally, Wyoming would have cooperatively used his sniper rifle to gather details from a distance and communicate enemy movements to Florida but without a helmet radio he was stuck pretending to do this while Florida completed the exercise on his own.

FILSS ended by summarising Agent Florida’s training that afternoon, identifying his improvements and ones still to be made. She also assessed Wyoming’s performance during his role as a sniper; “You achieved a 39% hit rate, Agent Wyoming, the majority of which were in non-lethal but incapacitating areas which would have slowed Agent Florida down much more than I simulated. I reduced the impact damage of your shots slightly to account for your above average accuracy.”

“I see. Had to handicap me to level the playing field?” Wyoming smugly went back across to where Florida was waiting to leave at the lower doors.

“I endeavour to give Agent Florida realistic chances,” FILSS insisted with no favouritism. “Goodnight, Agents.”

“You were just great today, FILSS! Goodnight!” Butch waved to the ceiling and called warmly.

Reginald said something as well, a little more awkwardly before they left. “Care to show me your nest then, special agent?”

“Absolutely love to.” At the prospect, Butch began to walk a little more quickly towards their destination.

His room was located nearer to the hangar, not surprising if the pilot also shared the area, and was of a slightly different design to the other Freelancers’, if just as spartan for the most part. Florida’s additions to his room were quite minimal aside from the Freelancer basics for his weapons and armour and a simple medical kit. His personal items on display consisted of a small pile of sugary snacks, a couple of closed and unmarked boxes, a small turtle figurine and a datapad on his desk. Aside from that, not even the small bookshelf and family photo Reginald had amongst his own things, just a single poster on the wall.

“A circus?” Reginald studied the poster, seeing it was nothing more than an advertisement from years ago for some mediocre troupe in Vermont.

“The most brilliant folk to spend a summer with.” Butch had set down his helmet on his desk in exchange for picking up a jam bagel that had been waiting there for him as a self-congratulatory snack. His bangs were still clipped back and again it was easy to see why he had been mistaken for a girl. “I was even performing with them by the end, but sadly I wasn’t in time to be included on the poster.” Performing? That might explain the acrobatic air about some of Florida’s movements during the training. “I really like to have something from everywhere that’s contributed so much to making me.”

“Good Lord; dare I ask what you kept from the brothel?” Reginald only cast a look, not sure if he was ready should something be produced.

“Oh, now you’ll have to get to know me a little better before I show you _that_ ,” Butch replied in a low, cosy tone.

Reginald didn’t intrude further on anything personal, even the very grinning turtle toy he found a little off-putting. “Are you all right, mate?” He frowned at Butch in his chair. “You’re sitting rather funny.”

Butch was leant uncomfortably over on one side, again avoiding putting his full weight on his left thigh. “Oh, I’m absolutely peachy, Reggie,” Butch said contently. His face unmasked again, Reginald had forgotten what those vibrant eyes were like on you. They then turned down, looking at the particular part of his body. “It’s just that you shot something hot into my ass which really got me hard,” Butch sounded slightly sore but very pleased about it, and was salaciously grinning, “and now it’s not very comfortable for me to sit down.”

Reginald stammered and stared, then choked and couldn’t help questioning if they had- _“No, we definitely didn’t-! But what the bloody hell else is he on about?!”_

Seeing the awful state he’d induced, Butch laughed softly and apologised. “In the park, when I leapt off the swing,” he said.

“What now? A swing?” Reginald was completely bewildered and had lost everything in his mind except the thought that Butch and he might have- “Oh! You damn blighter!” He scowled and tried to regain some semblance of composure. “You mean a bullet, don’t you?” The other agent nodded, sniggering slightly. “FILSS told me those wouldn’t harm you.”

“Now, it wouldn’t be fair if they didn’t hurt a bit; you wouldn’t know if you’d been hit.” If the holo-room could produce platforms to support you, it wasn’t too much of a leap for it to be able to produce small, temporary bullets for realism either. “But you just had to shoot me between my armour plates down there, didn’t you? If anyone sees that bruise, I’ll have to be honest and tell them that it was you who caused it, Reginald.”

“But who’s going to see anyway, old boy?” He nodded across at the door to the room’s small ensuite, as they all had. “Just don’t go around repeating that anyhow. The _‘girlfriend’_ thing’s bad enough as it is.”

“I’m finding it rather enjoyable,” Butch beamed, still devouring his bagel.

Reginald tutted, taking a seat on the other agent’s bed as gestured.


	5. Humility Lessons

Things for the next few days continued in the manner of occasional mealtimes coinciding where they would sit together in their special, now-used corner of the mess hall or knocking on one another’s door in the evening if not to spend a couple of hours playing cards, betting with embarrassing stories about themselves or the opportunity for the other to ask a free, personal question. Occasionally a question would be about something a little too uncomfortable to yet discuss but as they tended to stick to politely light-hearted questions – “Would you rather go into battle in neon pink armour or naked?” “So tell me, how much can your moustache bench?” – that rarely happened.

What did happen, but not to them, happened about four or five days after Wash and York first made the _‘girlfriend’_ comments to Wyoming.

The comments had been continuing, what with Wyoming’s time spent with the mysterious blonde party also continuing. “So, eating lunch with her today, Wyoming?”

“As I’m dashed sure I’ve told you a dozen times,” Wyoming replied, “we don’t know whether our meal times match up until we get there.” He had to reply this time as they were all entering the locker room after morning training.

“You still sit there waiting for her nearly every meal,” Wash pointed out.

Normally Wyoming tried to stay as physically far away from those two in particular as possible, and attempted to do so now as far as the proximity of their lockers would let him. He only gave a huff in response to their bothering of him.

“Hey, what’s this crap?” South had sat down on one of the benches in the centre- well more collapsed out of the sheer apathy she had for training. She was now investigating a small something that had been left there, before tossing it towards the boys. “It’s for you two,” and she sounded amused.

York elected to investigate, picking off the note whilst Wash held onto the small, cloth pouch. It was blue with a little golden ribbon tied around the neck. Wyoming moved a little further away from them whilst everyone listened to York read the note; “’Dear Agents Washington and York, I have been watching you for some time and hearing tales of your teamwork, observational skills and humour. The two of you are just incredible and I wanted to give you a well-deserved treat. Your secret admirer’ and then they’ve put some little Xs. Aww, isn’t that sweet?”

“Sounds like you two might be getting a girlfriend soon too,” C.T. said, finger-combing her hair now she had removed her helmet.

“If it comes to a fight over her, I think we know who’d win,” Carolina added.

“Hey!” Wash objected before taking greater interest in the small package. “Do you think it’s cookies or something?” He squeezed it slightly, feeling a few different pieces of something inside.

“I don’t know. Open it already,” York suggested impatiently.

Shrugging, Wash pulled on the ribbon.

SPLAT!

“Oh, holy shit, guys!”

“It’s everywhere!”

“What the fuck is this blue crap?!”

Wyoming emerged from where he had slipped behind the row of lockers for cover. The dark blue paint-like substance hadn’t exploded far enough that it would have hit him anyway, what with his general avoidance, but the previously grey and brown Freelancers were now completely blue on their front sides, and so was half the bench and floor around them. Blue had also splattered onto some of the nearby agents which was practically everybody else except Maine and North.

Royal blue.

“Now, boys, I’m sorry I had to do that,” Immediately, nearly a dozen guns were pointed at the source of a voice Wyoming knew rather well, “but I’m afraid you needed to learn a lesson about making assumptions.” Florida was sitting on top of the lockers, untouched by his paint, in civvies and grinning casually around the room. “And although this is an impressive number, everyone, it’s not the most guns I’ve ever had pointed at me. Nor the bluest,” he also noted, seeing the state of Wash and York’s weapons.

“Who the fuck are you?” Wash spat out. Luckily they had both had their helmets on and weren’t spitting out paint too. “And what the fuck was that?”

“I just told you, Agent Washington.” Florida slipped off the lockers, landing carefully next to the blue patch. “That was a lesson in making assumptions. Out in the field, making an assumption too quickly could cost you dearly and I wouldn’t want that at all.”

“Oh no, sure,” Wash scoffed in objection, “but you don’t mind covering us in blue-”

“Holy crap, it’s a dude,” C.T. interrupted.

“What?”

“Wyoming’s girlfriend- uh, boyfriend,” she nodded at the short, long-haired blonde.

“It’s a real pleasure to finally meet you all,” Florida held up a greeting hand, beaming, whilst everyone slowly turned to look at Wyoming.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, old thing,” the agent in white said, leaning casually and surveying the damage, “but this might have been a bit much.”

“Nothing’s too much when they’ve been making false assumptions about my best friend,” Florida reassured him, whilst equally unnerving everyone else. “And it’s all part of my role to help improve everyone’s field-mindsets.”

“Okay, now I really want to know,” Wash levelled his gun back at Florida’s chest; “Who the fuck are you?”

“And how do we get this stuff off our armour?” York was dabbing at it in vain with some tissues Carolina had passed him.

“Agent Florida and rubbing alcohol!” Florida cheerily replied. It took some people a moment to understand that he’d answered both questions in one go.

Again there was the confusion if they were getting a new agent before Florida explained his role as a special agent, Freelancer’s joker, and all that. After a few questions, most remained somewhat suspicious but with varying levels of acceptance.

“So...” C.T. looked between Florida and Wyoming when those questions were done. She, like most others except Maine who had gone off to get first choice on lunch, was trying to clean the blue paint off the locker room and their armour within it. There had been an argument Florida ought to do it, but he said it would undermine his lesson and stop everyone internalising it if he helped, plus his cheeriness still creeped everyone out. So Wyoming and Florida were the only ones standing around while everyone cleaned and C.T. asked them, “are you two dating?”

Wyoming sighed. “We’re simply best friends, dear girl.”

“Really? ‘Cause I’m getting some serious gay vibes from...” She looked between them, trying to decide which revenge would be less unpleasant, “both of you.”

Along with Carolina, she was one of the most relaxed about Florida. It seemed to directly correlate with how much paint had gotten on them, with South in the middle and York but particularly Wash at the top.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Florida grinned lazily, letting his eyes drift to Wyoming beside him, “but the other night we were training together and Reginald shot something hot into my ass which really got me hard. Made it rather uncomfortable to sit down for a while too.”

Everyone looked at Wyoming.

“Good Lord, man...!” He had one hand covering his visor, shaking his head despairingly. “He means a bloody bullet. I shot him with a sniper bullet.”

“In the ass?” asked York.

“Well, yes,” Wyoming admitted. Inside his helmet, his vital signs were beginning to flash up that he was getting too hot. Embarrassingly, it was from his blushing.

“So, your scope’s sights were trained on his ass?” York followed up, flashing a small but cheeky grin.

“Oh bloody hell, I’m going to lunch,” Wyoming made a move to storm out, having sorted out his things whilst everyone was cleaning. “And you’re coming with me,” He grabbed and very forcibly dragged Florida with him, “before you say anything else incriminating that I have to shoot you for.”

“Now, now; it was shooting me that got you into this nice, little mess,” Florida reminded him.

“Poppycock. It’s how you choose to keep phrasing it that-”

“Wait!” Wash shouted as they reached the door. He stood up from his cleaning, having not even bothered to start on his armour. “I don’t know who you are, or what you do, but since you’re making me clean this up, and I really hate cleaning stuff,” He began quite seriously for once, “I challenge you to a match, of something, in training.”

“Whoa, hey, easy there, buddy,” York stood and patted his shoulder. “Maybe we did kind of deserve this for how we treated Wyoming.”

Wyoming appeared to be pleased, whilst Florida just looked intrigued about the proposal.

“This isn’t about that,” Wash explained to his friend. “I want to see how good he is, if he’s supposed to bail us out of anything and gets to teach us lessons and observe us.”

“Well, sure, Agent Washington! Whenever you’d like,” Florida accepted. “I’ll even go up against you and York together if you’d like.”

Before York had been trying to dismiss the little game, but now he turned cocky. “You think you’re good enough to beat me as well, Mister Special Agent?”

“I don’t know,” Florida shrugged brightly, “but I’d sure as Sharpies like to try!”

“All right then.” They agreed to arrange it through Wyoming if they couldn’t meet up in person again. Now he’d been introduced to everyone, Florida didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t come and sit with them anyway. This meant that he had to act blind about the obvious distrust most of them still had towards him.

Wyoming just wondered why his supposed best friend was also the person causing him the most trouble right now.

* * *

It had been arranged for a time when no Freelancers had missions or training and the main training room was therefore free. All the other agents were up in the observation deck watching, mainly just to see the smallish, deep blue agent in action for the first time.

The three down on the floor were agreeing the rules of their little contest. “Three rounds, we pick one each.” York proposed, looking around to see two nods. “All right then, I pick hand-to-hand.”

“I’ll pick one of those full equipment paint matches,” Wash said.

“You mean a paint royale?” York supplied with a bit of amusement.

“You know, I’m not convinced they’re actually called that...” the younger agent objected uncertainly, glancing at the computer which he was sure was in on the joke.

“Well, I’d like to do a run of the obstacle course against you boys,” Florida decided. “Is that all right, FILSS?”

“Certainly, Agent Florida. I will prepare that as well.” The computer took their choices and began the set up, asking them to take their places. “Beginning hand-to-hand combat. Round One begin in five, four, three, two, one.” The three faced off, Wash and York close together for a short, tactical discussion whilst Florida calmly stood across from them, not even thinking about putting his guard up. “Round Begin.”

The two teamed agents moved forward slowly together, their guards up, adding a postscript conclusion to their discussion of strategy when they saw Florida was still standing at ease, just watching them almost impassively. That done, Wash and York separated, beginning to circle the single agent slowly.

“Is he good?” Carolina asked to Wyoming without taking her eyes off the match.

“He’s...” Wyoming struggled for a word that could deal with being used as Agent Florida’s description. He had to use four in the end, “out of the ordinary.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes...” Wash would be taken down by Florida easily. It was when it came to York that he was unsure which man a sensible fiscal investor would place his money on. There were some informal bets on this match amongst the others, but Wyoming had stayed out of that.

There was no more time for conversation then.

Wash had charged in suddenly, opening with a chain of quick, relentless punches. Florida was simply feinting backwards and to the side repeatedly, dodging each jab with minimal room and no fighting stance. His aura suddenly dropped from casual into enigmatic, leaving Wash little reason to do anything but continue and wonder.

Constantly backing away was bringing Florida closer to York who was waiting for his moment to strike.

His wait was cut short when Florida suddenly leapt back far out of Wash’s range at an opportunity, beginning with a kick that spun him round to engage York now. Their sparring was about equal, with York’s superior skill offset by being placed on the back foot at the start from Florida’s sudden attack. The defensive suited York though until he could suddenly surge forward when Wash rejoined them, coming in from Florida’s right. Almost as if expecting that, Florida dodged back, getting too close into Wash’s range, pivoting around the grey agent’s side during a kick to behind him where a well-placed kick of his own sent Wash flying at York. York mostly evaded his friend, just getting knocked slightly on one side and letting Wash take the majority of the pain during his landing.

“I’m not a fucking projectile, ow...” could be heard from Wash sprawled on the floor whilst the other agents returned to their one-on-one spar.

“He’s not a fighter,” North observed about the special agent currently holding his own with York, “but he’s not bad.”

South scoffed, “It’s not hard to be better than Wash.”

“Still,” North said, watching Florida land a kick combo on York only to get hook punched for his trouble, “York’s probably our best fighter after Carolina; that’s why he picked this round.”

“He fights like an alley cat...” Wyoming murmured mainly to himself, watching how his best friend would lash out at exposed vitals when hit, constantly attacking despite how dazed he must be in those moments. York had the technique but Florida’s ferocity was landing just as many blows. “Every fight is bloody life and death to him.” They could all see Florida going repeatedly for exposed parts, joints or the stomach, groin and neck, and it was keeping the pressure up on York even as he took less blows.

Things changed when Wash had gotten back to his feet and properly locked on his helmet this time. “Okay, this is the _last_ time I forget to check the clasps before a fight...” and flicked his gaze back to Florida with fiery determination. “All right, let’s see how _you_ like having your blue splattered everywhere.”

Even York was thrown by Wash’s sudden charge at the royal blue agent, but not as physically as Florida was thrown back across the arena. Only winded, Florida rolled back onto his feet instantly, dealing with most of Wash’s attacks until the one that got him in the chest, and then the following straight punch to his face which Florida caught. “Cra-” An elbow smashed those words out the side of Wash’s face before his shoulders were grabbed, forcing all the weight in his body down for maximum impact onto the knee Florida smashed into his groin.

“Ooh!” every male in the room collectively shared.

A simple back kick to the stomach sent Wash flying away to go curl up somewhere until he could feel his maleness again. But he did leave Florida with a present.

“How the hell did he get that off Wash?” It was hard to tell if Carolina was shocked or just amused and wanted to learn the trick herself.

Agent Florida was turning over the grey breastplate he had unclipped from Washington’s armour during his little assault in his hands, testing its weight.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Wyoming weighed in his opinion to explain it, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the boy had sticky fingers.”

“He probably did after _dealing_ with you,” C.T. said wryly.

“Oh, shut up. That’s getting old,” Wyoming huffed.

Back on the floor, the two remaining agents were sparring once more, only now Florida had something that was both a very effective handheld shield and could double less effectively as a weapon sometimes. It was making things much more difficult for York when his blows could be more easily deflected and Florida now had the opportunity for more variety in his attacks.

Eventually, York dropped back after being staggered by a blow to the head with the breastplate. “Hey, FILSS; is he allowed to use that?” he asked whilst catching his breath. Florida hadn’t pursued him.

“There is nothing in my rulebook against it, Agent York. Agents must start hand-to-hand combat unarmed but they are permitted to use the environment to their advantage.”

“But that’s not a piece of the environment; it’s a piece of Wash!”

“Yes,” FILSS agreed, “but Agent Washington has been eliminated from the round. His body is now effectively just part of the environment.”

“I heard that!” Wash called in a pained voice. “Oww...”

While York had dropped back for his discussion, Florida too had been stealing a momentary rest and examining the breastplate in his hands. It seemed slightly out of shape from one of York’s stronger attacks, but that wasn’t his problem really. Instead, taking the opportunity, Florida pulled back and then threw the slightly curved piece through the air at York.

York dodged in time, using the moment to return the fight with more force now Florida had literally thrown his one advantage away. Without that, York had the upper hand again.

“He’s not going to look back in time, is he?” North chuckled as they watched the whole arena.

“Jolly good throw, though,” Wyoming nodded to his friend.

“If he didn’t think of that,” Carolina almost sighed, “he’s an idiot who deserves what’s coming to him.”

The well-deserved breastplate smacked York in the back of the head, having boomeranged round after he first dodged it. Florida acted without hesitation, striking York with an uppercut and then throwing him round into the nearest wall. With Florida’s boot on his neck by the time York’s head felt like it was one single object again, he couldn’t struggle back up without the heel digging in and choking him entirely.

“Round over. Point, Florida. Hand-to-hand combat complete.” FILSS didn’t go on to begin the next round, seeing the agents might still need a minute.

“Not bad,” Maine growled.

“Whoa. He’s going to give you a run for your money on that leaderboard, Carolina,” North said, elbowing her lightly.

“Ah, our dear Agent Florida won’t be appearing on the leaderboard,” Wyoming informed them rather smugly. “As he explained it to me, his different role means he is assessed by different criteria, thereby making him ineligible for ranking against us.”

“Nice perk,” C.T. muttered. They were watching York get back up, rubbing his neck, as Florida returned the discarded breastplate to Wash who snatched it back, struggling to clip the slightly bent piece back on.

“York’s been floating around second place though. I can’t believe that Florida guy could beat him,” said North.

“Yet I beat him once as a sniper during training,” Wyoming added as the self-appointed expert here; “the little blue devil’s a mixed bag.”

“He’s something else, I’ll give him that,” Carolina observed, frowning slightly over the match.

“...You want to fight him now, don’t you?” North asked.

“Do I even need to say of course?”

Back on the floor, “Resetting the floor for Lockdown Paint Royale.” The pillars rose up, less evenly than a plain lockdown paint scenario. Each side also took a greater assortment of weapons, with paint ammos for rifles as well as magnums and some paint grenades as well. “Beginning paint royale. Round Two begin in five, four, three, two, one. Round begin.”

Wash and York had agreed a quick strategy to go on offensive. Rifles in hand, they covered each other as they took turns moving up, sweeping the room from their side towards Florida’s.

So far Florida couldn’t be seen by those observing in the crowds, having started on the opposite side and immediately assumed cover behind a large, diagonally raised pillar. When he did finally break cover to shoot around one side, the other agents were ready, quickly forcing him to shelter again. They swept in together, firing shots that hit close enough to force Florida to dive behind a long, low barrier to one side with mostly narrow misses, one shot actually catching the heel of his left boot. From down there, he could safely fire enough shots to get York behind cover but the same action gave Wash the opportunity to lob a grenade over, aiming to trap the blue soldier currently hiding low for cover.

They didn’t count on Florida just getting up, flipping his rifle in his hands to grasp it like a baseball bat and strike the grenade right back.

“Oh, what the...?” He had knocked it high, causing York and Wash the need to look up briefly in order to avoid its landing. It exploded nowhere near them, an ugly pink star bouncing off a pillar metres behind either of them, but in the moment everyone had been watching that, Florida had completely disappeared from sight. “Find him! Where is he?!” Wash and York moved practically back-to-back, scanning the room with frantic rifles.

“Yoo-hoo! Boys!” Florida called as he practically materialised from nowhere at the side of the arena, both hands held up with a grenade pin around every finger and already in the process of throwing. Each finger was bent slightly and calculated, as much as it could be, so the black grenades scattered as they flew through the air like a completely untrained flying formation of massive black wasps.

“Oh _shit_.” York tried to get away to where he could see a blind spot no grenades would land, but Wash tried to get away faster, falling onto the brown agent and bringing them both down.

To commemorate this, Florida made sure to get them well stuck together when he coated the two agents in lockdown paint with his magnum.

“Round two, over. Point awarded to Florida. The current score is Team One, 0; Agent Florida, 2.”

“Seriously, are you secretly on his team or something?” York asked whilst they were stuck awaiting solvent.

“Me? You’re blaming me for him being a complete nutjob?” Wash practically squawked, making small grunting noises but finding he was utterly unable to move inside his armour now. “This sucks...”

“What? You don’t like being stuck to me with bright pink goo?” York faked mild hurt at those words.

“No, he’s just...” Wash paused. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” Indeed, Florida was.

“Now where were those senses during the match?” York just sighed.

“Just hold on there, boys; I’ve got you.” Florida had collected the solvent for the paint now the match was done, spraying it over the nice pink mess that the other two agents currently were. It slowly melted away, leaving only a rather unpleasant, chemical smell behind. “There. Now, was that so bad?” He stood back to admire his work as the defeated agents groaned and stretched back out in their armour.

“I fucking hate that stuff...” Getting slowly to his feet, York was rubbing his side as he looked at Florida. “Still want to go through with the obstacle course? Give us a thorough beating?”

“Absolutely!” The small and peppy Florida stood watching with a hand on one slightly cocked hip, sounding very amused. “It’d be the perfect end, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, great...” Wash staggered back onto his feet, using a pillar for support just as it retreated back into the floor, nearly sending him over again. “Okay, seriously, if this was a good day for me, because it’s obviously my worst day ever,” He jabbed a finger roughly in Florida’s direction, “ _you_ would totally have not been so lucky. I could still beat you.”

York couldn’t stop from laughing as he told him, “Give it up, Wash! The man’s got you beat.”

“He’s not a man!” Wash complained as they walked off towards physical fitness, the larger room used for running laps and the obstacle course, as well as the well-hated tower. “He’s younger than even me! And he looks like a girl...”

Florida just chuckled about that, stretching his arms up in armour that he knew made him look far more slender than any of the other agents. It was mainly for manoeuvrability but he definitely couldn’t fault the style of his special suit either.

“Oh, suck it up,” York said. “Carolina _is_ a girl and she beat my ass into next week the other day. I’m still waiting to pick it up next Tuesday.”

When they got into the physical training room, despite some more grey grumblings, it wasn’t long before most of the other agents came down as well, joining them. Only C.T. and South had disappeared off somewhere, having seen all they needed to in order to win their bets.

“Nice, Wash. You actually made yourself a detriment to your team. I have to commend that level of suck,” Carolina said in as friendly a way as that could be said when she approached.

“Hey! Most of you have had at least a year serving in the army,” the younger agent objected. “I got pulled for this project straight after basic training, and that has to make me some kind of awesome.” Although, he had to admit, it certainly wasn’t showing much.

“It sure does!” Florida assured him with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “After all, I didn’t even finish basic training before Freelancer picked me up.” He walked away towards the start of the course.

Wash stared after him, “Oh, come on!” and then ran to catch up, determined to beat Florida at something.

“I wouldn’t mind having a match with you sometimes, Florida,” Carolina was already there, seeming cocky but impressed. “You pulled out a lot of moves I couldn’t expect.”

“That’s what I do! And if you’d like to go,” he went on, gesturing to the obstacle course that ran down one side of the room, “why don’t you join in now? Let’s have a big, group-bonding competition!” All the other Freelancers who had been the audience were looked at expectantly.

North shrugged, “Sure; I’m game.”

Maine just flexed an arm at the shoulder, and muttered something like, “Bring it, pipsqueak.”

“Oh, very well...” Wyoming supposed he was being dragged into this too.

York and Carolina approved, but all Wash cared about was beating the one agent who had proposed this.

“All-righty!” Florida seemed delighted to have everyone involved. “Is it just a race to the end, no marks for style?” as they sometimes did.

“Just get to the end the fastest,” Carolina agreed, loosening up and looking forward.

It was accepted, and everyone just about managed to fit on the start-line together.

“Beginning Obstacle Course. The objective is the fastest time. Seven agents competing. Good luck, everyone. Race begin in five, four, three, two, one: Start!”

Running speeds set everyone apart very quickly, (Aside from North who Maine had thrown backwards with one hand right at the start to get a clearer run), with Carolina and Florida taking a slight lead, Wash just behind them due to sheer strength of will. Everyone kept close together over, under and around the first few obstacles consisting of stationary and moving barriers.

Carolina pulled ahead by diving under the crawl net with swift ease.

Florida reclaimed a lead by just leaping the net, even using the greenish-blue agent as a stepping stone.

“Hey! What the hell?!” She was out from under the net very quickly, pursuing Florida with an aggressive speed now as he climbed up the frame to the suspended rope.

Everyone else behind switched places, with York, Maine and Wash caught up under the net, Wyoming and North taking after Florida and jumping it, if that was allowed, with a cavalier apology from the British agent.

No one was in time though, as Florida leapt forward, looping one of his detached ammo belts over the rope to clear most of it like a zipline, rather than cross it crawling or hand-over-hand like usual. Carolina strived to catch up again, seeing that of all things Florida had stopped to reattach his ammo belt around his chest.

It wasn’t until she was halfway across that she also noticed the knife Florida had produced, the one he sliced the rope with. “You fucking-!”

Florida waved cheerily at her as she tumbled into the pit full of some kind of gluey chemical, before he leapt down and continued the rest of the course in the same anarchic fashion, clocking up a time about 2/3s of the norm.

Meanwhile, all the other Freelancers had congregated at the side of the pit Carolina was slowly fighting her way out of, with the use of some liberal cussing, as they had been left unable to go further without stepping outside the boundaries of the course. When she got close enough, York and Wyoming helped the rather tarred, greenish-blue agent out of the pit whilst everyone else stood around shrugging or suggesting ideas to little avail.

In the end, they waited for Florida to finish and then stepped outside of the course, aside from Carolina who stormed outside the lines the instant that she could without sticking to the floor.

“Obstacle course, complete. Point to Agent Florida. All other agents disqualified,” FILSS gave her announcement as indifferently as ever, despite the potential rule-breaking.

“That doesn’t count!” Carolina grabbed Florida by one of his ammo belts, lifting him slightly. “He didn’t do it properly!”

“Agent Florida is not meant to do things properly, Carolina,” came a sudden, southern drawl.

Everyone turned, assuming a more respectful posture towards the Director. Florida even saluted him, whilst on tip-toes.

The Director continued, “The point of Agent Florida is that he cheats; he uses every unfair scheme an enemy might use against us on the field. You stated the objective was simply to reach the end of the course fastest and Florida accomplished that. Do you have a problem with his actions in light of that?”

“I expected him to follow the rules, Sir. I’ll know for next time.” Carolina glared with her helmet for a moment, before roughly letting the dark blue agent down.

“There likely won’t be a next time; Agent Florida isn’t meant to compete with any of you. He was given special dispensation this time as a demonstration to you all,” the Director explained, looking at the supposed best agent until she got the message.

“...Fine.” Carolina stormed away and gave up on her fight.

“Nice work today, Agent Florida,” the Director commended.

“Thank you very much, Sir!” Florida remained oblivious to any looks or mutters about teachers’ pets.

“I also heard about the paint bomb incident you orchestrated in the locker room,” their superior continued, turning to the main group; “I hope that was good lesson to the rest of you about assumptions, assumptions which could cost you your life out in the field.”

Wash noticed he was getting the worst of the look. “But, Sir, it was in the locker room, and it looked harmless.”

“I could also say that you look quite harmless, Agent Washington,” the Director drawled at him witheringly, “but I would like to hope you could still kill when needed.”

“Yes, Sir!” Wash hoped that was... okay?

“However!” the Director began sharply. Everyone held their silence tensely for whatever rebuke was coming next. Until the Director turned on Agent Florida; “Agent Florida, once again you have been caught stealing military equipment, and somehow manipulated FILSS into helping you.”

“Agent Florida assured me that he had permission to take that paint grenade, Director,” FILSS spoke up, shifting all blame onto the human. “Although I had no lessons tallied in which he might have required it, I thought he had undertaken an initiative to teach himself-”

“Enough!” She was silenced, and a few people thought they say Florida flinch. “Agent Florida, I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that although you have been granted extra freedom as part of Project Freelancer, you are not above getting court martialled,” Everyone looked at each other, “again!” And now there were whispers. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir! Crystal!” Florida leapt to agree, saluting again.

“Good.” The Director turned to leave, only stopping to shout further at Florida, “And fix that rope, Florida! I don’t take kindly to people damaging my equipment!”

“Yes, sir.” This time, Florida actually sounded a little defeated.

He was left with all of the other Freelancers staring at him, wanting to ask, waiting to lord over him the fact they had all managed to complete basic training properly and weren’t here with any threats of military prison sentences hanging over them. Or so he assumed; he couldn’t really know. “Well! I really did enjoy today, everyone, but if you’ll excuse me now, I’m afraid I have a sad little rope that’s been cut to see to!” Florida cheerfully clapped his hands and walked away, back towards the obstacle course.

Oh well, the special agent kept his thoughts up, at least his public humbling would help keep him a little more popular amongst the others.

He ignored them leaving, instead scaling the frame on the side he had cut the rope to assess the damage. The rope was some sort of nylon and metal-fibre affair which could probably be replaced with a bit of work and a new cord. “FILSS, where could I find a new rope for the obstacle course?”

“There are lengths of a similar material stored in a room near the hangars. If you would like, I could give you directions.” At least the computer helped him this time.

“Thank you, FILSS.” Florida fiddled with the pole, finding latches he could undo to extract the pitiful, short end of rope from that side. It was of no use to anyone now that he had worked his usual magic on it. Florida wished he wasn’t staring at it, thumb brushing through the severed fibres at one end.

“Need a hand, mate?” He spun, suddenly finding himself staring down at snow white armour stood waiting for him. “You’re taking a bloody ice age up there.”

Wyoming never saw the smile on Florida’s face at those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments so far! I'm always pleased as punch to hear your thoughts on my work if there's anything you'd like to say, or simply to tell me that you're reading and you'd like to see more. I'd be delighted by that too.
> 
> Next time, we finally find out if Florida's cheerfulness actually has its limits.


	6. Living Inside the Box

It was soon that the Freelancers were being given their first true missions, mainly sweeping up straggling groups of insurrectionists, reclaiming stolen property or foiling their plots.

Florida found a place, of sorts, with the main group socially, predominately as a hanger-on to Wyoming who was himself not that socially integrated. But Wash had a comfortable rivalry going with the special agent due to their close ages as the youngest, and also their completely contrasting skillsets, with Wash having all the technical competence and Florida the pragmatism, with very little of each other’s at times.

On the subject of age, Florida seemed to have taken a scout-leader-like attitude towards all of the other Freelancers, except Wyoming and occasionally Maine, despite being the youngest of them. He claimed it was just his duty to be looking out for all of his little agents, despite also being the second shortest; C.T. won the title. His optimistic, guidance-counsellor impression quickly started to grate on them some of the time, but there was something to be said for the fact it could always be counted upon.

For the missions, when it came to any recon, most was for whatever reason given to Wyoming and Florida, establishing them quickly enough as an informal partnership. Soon the only other team that could rival them were the Dakota twins but they couldn’t do recon as, well, they had South.

“Suits me just fine, dear boy,” Wyoming said as they walked together out of briefing for their third recon mission together. “Not so much of the whole ‘getting shot at’ business the others seem so fond of.”

“That’s certainly the case. And plenty of time where it’s just you and me; it’s a delight!” Even heading to the hangar to leave, Florida was practically skipping already.

“Ah yes.”

They fell so naturally into complement with each other, the nimble, cunning scout and his ever-watchful, viciously protective sniper; “He’s a guardian angel with a sniper rifle!”

York had got in on that one, “If that’s what the angels in heaven look like, I’m hoping I go to hell.”

“Don’t worry; you’ll get there,” Carolina quickly dismissed him though.

As partners, Wyoming and Florida had unquestionably fitting skills and, off the field, everyone said fitting personalities. They both came off as friendly enough, after all, despite very often grating everyone’s nerves with their arrogance and light-heartedness. There was very little they remained serious about, aside from missions, assisting one another’s training and seemingly spending every possible free moment together. They denied it, but it seemed like their default setting was to seek each other out.

This served as enough continual fuel for the _‘boyfriends’_ fire. It had mainly just become one of those long-running in-jokes of the group, brought up at least once a week or so casually, something which would have just been wrong if it disappeared from the group dynamic.

Florida even went along with it on occasion, sitting uncomfortably close to the other agent and making his ambiguous flirts in order to enjoy Wyoming’s blush; Butch said it was for group morale, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for that it seemed. He was a monster of good cheer and optimism, bringing everyone in on the board games he brought to the rec room, with ferocious grins and shoulder pats if necessary. He made sure everyone attended any birthday parties going, even when it required stalking them with ominous paper chains and threats of party poppers. No fight ever lasted longer than a day with the little blonde arbiter of, “I think we need to fight this little misunderstanding, not each other. I don’t want to have to give anyone a timeout now,” around.

But for all that, it turned out he was human.

* * *

“Man, what took you so long?” Florida and Wyoming looked up to see York greeting Wash, the younger agent dropping into the opposite armchair with a mug in his hands. “North’s busy doing twin things so I had to go talk to Carolina.”

“So?” Wash asked, oblivious to the issue there.

York indicated past the back of Wash’s armchair from to the TV. “She’s playing video games tonight.”

“Oh jeez, sorry.” Wash flinched every time he saw the intensity Carolina had once she had a controller in her hands. “So where’s the controller-shaped dent in you this time?”

“No dent,” York proudly declared; “I agreed to play multiplayer with her for a bit.”

“Ha!” Came from the deeply engrossed player sitting cross-legged on the floor.

York shifted his posture, lackadaisically admitting, “All right; I agreed to get beaten up for a few rounds.” That sounded more like it to Wash. “What were you doing?” they returned to the question.

“I was getting changed, and a coffee,” Wash indicated his mug.

York frowned at the idea that took 40 minutes. “You were looking at pictures of cats online, weren’t-?”

“No!” Wash answered too fast. “Uh...” His thumb stroked awkwardly over the kitten playing with a ball of yarn that decorated his mug, seeking comfort, “No?” he tried.

“And they say _I’m_ a bad liar...”

Across on one of the couches, Wyoming had somehow gotten into teaching his best friend the finer points of understanding British conversation. They had already covered how addressing someone using the phrase, “With the upmost respect,” actually meant, “You’re an utter idiot,” at which point York had tried to join in from across the room whilst waiting. His less than helpful comment earned him two fingers up from the British agent, which Florida had reached across and taken hold of, curling those two fingers back in and putting Wyoming’s thumb up instead. There hadn’t been any reaction from Wyoming to the physical manipulation of his body, almost as if he accepted Florida touching him as a matter of course. York’s comment about _that_ earned Florida a lesson in British insults, for entirely professional reasons of course.

“Now, if someone begins a topic change with the word ‘incidentally’,” Wyoming continued to his very engaged student, “then the following topic is the actual matter they wanted to discuss with you in the first place. Anything else was simply filler for the sake of politeness.”

“It’s so nice that England puts this priority on politeness. When even bad things are delivered with such effort for the feelings of the other person, it’s no wonder you’re all such pleasant people,” Florida responded jovially.

Wyoming squinted slightly at him. “...You’re joking now, aren’t you, mate?”

Florida just kept grinning in an even more enigmatic way.

“Hey, Florida!”

They turned to the noise. “Well, howdy again, Agent York! What can I do for you?” Florida replied.

York had something in one of his hands, held slightly aloft. It was a small, smooth-edged box, about the size of two datapads stacked on top of each other, with black and rounded corners. “Thought you might want this back,” York said and tossed the box gently across the coffee table between their seating. Florida caught it, his eyes having not left the box since it appeared in sight. His smile had left though. “Sorry about it, but Wash dared me to break into your room and take something from your foot locker. There wasn’t anything else in there; you don’t have much in your room at all, do you?” He was chatting casually but Florida was still staring at the box he held just above his lap. “No harm done of anything; I didn’t break any of the locks or anything. Oh, and I didn’t open that, just saying,” He indicated the box; “I couldn’t figure it out. What kind of secret mechanism is... it...?”

Florida had risen, stepping straight across the coffee table with complete disregard to approach York’s armchair and the York slouched comfortably in it. Wyoming had tried asking Florida’s real name softly, and everyone else in the room had somehow sensed to look; even Carolina had paused her game.

York just raised his head, asking, “Hey? You-?”

Florida smashed York across the face with a cheery, “Thank you for returning this, Agent York!” that was pure fire and ice in one, striding out like the lightning of a thunderstorm.

Everyone was up in the instant that the door slid shut, all eyes having watched Florida’s exit, except York who was too preoccupied with having been half-tumbled out of his chair by Florida’s punch and now the blood running down his face.

“What the hell was that?”

“Hey, York! You all right, buddy?”

“He’s bleeding pretty bad from the- Move your hand, York.”

“Id’s my gnose. He gob my gnose,” York told them, sniffling and snuffling blood.

“All right, let me see,” North moved in, prodding at it and producing flinches.

“Should we take him to medical?” C.T. asked, looking around the boys.

Wash shrugged. Maine just sort of growled something noncommittal.

“Ib id b’oken?”

North hummed and judged, “I don’t think so, champ. You’ll live.”

“Wait.” Wyoming had meanwhile pursued South going for the door, and Carolina asking, “What the hell was that?”

“Are you going to go sort your _friend_ out, or do I have to?” South asked, willing to wait at the door for Wyoming.

“South!” Carolina cooled her boots before turning on the best friend left behind to take the stick for Florida’s actions. “I don’t care if he’s a good agent and one of the Director’s favourite tools, if he doesn’t come back and apologise or explain himself for that-”

“It was one outburst,” Wyoming sharply protested. “This team has them all the bloody time.”

Carolina shook her head softly. “Not like that... He’s obviously a loose cannon emotionally, and that’s fine by me, up until he starts doing serious damage to us.” Her eyes fell on York wincing as his nose was gently prodded. “It was just one small incident this time, but I sensed this danger from the start.”

“You don’t think that your dear locksmith has some blame to shoulder for this, hm?” Wyoming retorted, jacking a thumb over his shoulder at the little medical circus going on around the armchairs.

“All right, fine, yes,” their quasi-official leader huffed, folding her arms. “York shouldn’t have done that. But it’s hard to trust that guy with his constant happy-go-lucky act; we can all see through it.”

“That is how he copes and it’s as genuine as you’re ever likely to get from him so I suggest you all damn well learn to accept it.” As he rebuked them, Wyoming wondered at what point he became Florida’s keeper in the group.

“Copes? Copes with what?” South scoffed, leaning back against the wall and tossing her head. “Most of the people in here had a sucky childhood but they don’t go around hitting people in the face with it-”

“South, be quiet!” The belligerent twin eventually sighed harshly and went back to something else at the shout. Carolina turned back to Wyoming, finishing this. “Look, he freaked out. Fine. God knows we all do that sometimes. Whatever that was, what York did obviously struck something personal and delicate and that probably wouldn’t have happened if he didn’t act like he had no issues with anything. It wasn’t possible for York to guess that’s where the limit was.” Wyoming wasn’t all too sure about that, but he said nothing about it. “So, just tell him that much,” Carolina informally instructed, “and come back with some sort of reason or apology.”

“Right.” Wyoming just wanted to go to his friend.

He left, hearing as he went, “Geb Cawonina to kizz id bedder.”

“No fucking chance, but I’ll haul your ass down to medical if you want.”

Then the door slid shut and he was on his way down the familiar routes to Butch’s room. It didn’t feel like there was the chance of him also getting punched, but he was still very uneasy about entering once he got to the door.

“Er, Butch, mate?” He knocked lightly, twice. No response, not even a ‘Who’s there?’ to go in joking. Maybe Butch didn’t even want jokes now. Gosh, that’d be a turn of events. “Look, I’m worried about you so I’m going to come in unless you want to tell me to push off first.” After giving it a moment waiting for any reply, he slowly pushed the buttons for Butch’s code – 0239; he knew it too well – into the pad and entered.

Butch was standing at his desk, the box at issue sitting on the surface. It was open slightly around the middle, the top a fraction lifted while Butch held something, presumably taken from it, in his hands. “Thank you for worrying about me, Reginald.” Butch spoke without looking back, making small flicking motions across the screen of what he held. He spoke the same words he would have been expected to but all the lilt and life had gone from his delivery leaving something cool and too measured. Butch sounded sincere but tired, gentle and...

“Good Lord; you’re barely smiling,” Reginald joked with him tenderly, staying by the door as it closed. He didn’t feel right to intrude further on the box without permission. “That’s one hell of a sight to suddenly thrust upon someone, mate.”

“I imagine it is,” Butch said with a soft bit of humour. His attention was still entirely upon whatever was in his hands, but there was a tiny upwards tilt on the side of his mouth that could be seen. “Do you know, I wasn’t even smiling at all until you got here?”

“Bloody hell; I think I’m going to faint.” Butch’s smile was pulled up properly for a moment before it then settled again wearily. “... _Are_ you all right, Butch?” With this new side before him, Reginald felt totally lost.

Butch didn’t even reply, flicking through a few more screens before stopping, not seeming dissatisfied with what he had viewed. The small item he had been holding, which looked perhaps like a camera, he returned to the box silently, pressing it gently shut. His thumbs stroked along the seal on one side. “Even if he was naughty enough to steal it, at least Agent York was honest and didn’t open it without permission,” he said, sounding faintly relieved. It was hard to tell if he was really feeling anything in comparison to his usual dramatic show that felt like he was giving an explanation of the feeling to a 2-year-old.

“If the boy had been lying about that, I’m certain we would have known,” Reginald remarked wryly. To him, York was quite obviously the villain here but Butch had an oddly unpredictable sense of compassion.

“Aw, don’t be so hard on him; I’m sure he tries his best.” There it was, something that could have been one of his veiled insults or team-leading encouragements equally. It had no passion to make it matter either way, however, as the hollow words couldn’t inspire anything.

Except concern. “Butch...” Reginald began uncertainly, taking a couple of slow steps closer. Butch’s hands hadn’t left the box, and neither had his gaze. “Mate, what’s wrong? I’m on your side in this.”

“Now, now,” Butch whispered; “there are no ‘sides’ in ‘team’...” He sounded so weak.

“Butch...” He put a hand out on his friend’s shoulder.

Butch flinched it violently off, turning with his back fully to Reginald. One of his arms tucked across his chest defensively, the other hand going up to his face where it looked like he was biting on a knuckle. “I feel just simply _awful_ about what I did to York,” he complained breathlessly. Then tension rose through his frame and he actually began to shake. “But what he did,” Butch hissed in a darkly ugly tone, “has me feeling like I need to rip his life to pieces, to take him apart before he can throw **that** away on laughs, as if it all really was just nothing but a selfish set-up for someone else’s punchline...” He hissed again, wordlessly, perhaps biting harder on his knuckle before Butch let out a hard breath. “However, I trust him!” He chirped more lightly, straightening up with no more trembling. But he was still tense. “No need for any of that ripping apart this time!”

This time...

Butch sounded as if he was instructing himself at the end, one of those phrases you taught yourself to respond to, and it had Reginald leaning his weight back slightly away. That was just not right; the cascade up and down so quickly, like the inevitable, unstoppable slip of a mask just for a second whilst it was being righted on a face. The phrases, the tone, the back to him-

“You can take that step away if you want, Reginald.”

How Butch told him that so softly, sounding almost lightly amused, was terrifying again.

Reginald forced himself to move the weight back over the middle of his feet, not ready to step back.

Butch turned to face him, and like a piece sliding neatly into place, Reginald now knew something he saw in those intoxicating, indigo eyes. His lips rebelled at the thought of saying _it_ though, hanging slightly open instead. He tongued at them briefly before murmuring jovially, “You certainly pulled one over on that psychological test, eh?”

With a soft chuckle, Butch grinned right up to his canines.

How telling, Reginald thought; faced with a murderer, he joked with them.

_“Pull yourself together, man! You’re a soldier that’s faced dozens of battlefields and the thing that gets you quivering in your boots is...  
Is far more bloody dangerous! Why are you still standing here, you pillock?”_

Reginald couldn’t take his eyes from Butch’s.

_“Oh, damn it all. Even murderers need best friends.”_

The expression on Butch’s face lifted slightly on one side, turning curious as the tension slipped away from the man opposite him leaving, of all things, calm acceptance. He knew what had been seen; the realisation was too plain, even on a handsomely moustachioed soldier’s face who had killed in battle.

But not off as well. And even here, that still meant something severe.

“Well, let’s get started on our revenge plan then, hey?” Reginald offered. “But no ripping apart.”

Butch blinked. The other man had actually stepped closer. He was waiting for a response too.

“I certainly do think someone has to give that York a lesson before his stealing becomes a gateway crime.” Butch felt himself agreeing unwittingly as his usual self took back over. “And Agent Washington must be taught that it’s not cool to make friends with peer pressure. What do you suggest?”

His fellow prankster thought for a moment. “Got any more paint?”

Butch grinned. “Is pink all right this time?”

Half an hour later, their plan was drawn up on Butch’s datapad and they were slightly hoarse at that moment from laughing at each silly extra idea they thought up for the masterpiece. Butch was sat at the head of his bed, pillow in lap whilst Reginald lounged down at the bottom, tossing the tablet back and forth as new ideas came to each.

“Ah, bloody hell...” Reginald sat back with a sigh, folding his arms behind his head to rest it on. “I was meant to be here ticking you off and getting an explanation, old chap, and now here I am plotting with you like the Count of Monte Cristo.” Butch always had a blank smile whenever he made literary references; the lad could hardly be blamed when he’d dropped out of school at 7.

“If you wanted an explanation you should have just asked,” Butch cheerfully responded.

But he didn’t give one.

Glancing over to the box still sitting upon the desk, Reginald frowned slightly. He strained his mind to remember what Carolina had said, what he was meant to repeat. “The others were just understandably dismayed, you know. You’re usually such a sunbeam and then you go and whack York across the face like that, not that he didn’t deserve it.” Butch smiled as if he was being too kind, or biased. “They said they can’t trust you, what with the unfailingly happy act, but I told them it’s all they’re going to get, hard cheese and all that.”

“Well, thanks; you sure are a great friend, Reginald!” Butch’s gaze then drifted to the box too as his warm voice faded away. He just smiled enigmatically at it for a while, but Reginald waited for him. “...It’s my life.”

“What now?”

“It’s just a silly, little box of...” Butch began enthusiastically before letting himself trail off. He then told Reginald fondly, but sensitively, “No. It’s all there is. I never stayed anywhere longer than six months after the orphanage. There isn’t a single person besides me that knows my whole life; no records, no family. So I took pictures everywhere I went, wrote my stories on them. They might be such an old-fashioned thing now but I love selfies!” His smile had grown wistful and content, but Butch still hugged his pillow a little harder as he briefly grinned at that. “Every photo since the day I was found. It’s been with me through everything; I engraved all the different initials I’ve gone by on the inside too. It’s such a stupid thing, isn’t it?” Butch laughed but his cheerful disposition had gone see-through again, just like the few other times he had ever talked about his life.

“Quite the contrary! It’s a marvel you’ve kept the thing so long and...” Put so much in a single box...

“The idea that he could take it...” Butch began again uneasily, gaze pointed down at his socken feet. “Just take my whole life, all those... times... The things that, well I don’t want to blow my own horn but some of them were...” He had been drooping, despite each effort to regain his spirits momentarily. His eyes now closed, he was mumbling into his pillow. It had little smiley faces at each of the corners. “...Like I never went through all of that pain...”

In the silence, it was easy to see the terror bringing Butch’s arms tighter around his pillow. Reginald could hear these things but he wasn’t sure he could imagine it. Living just for yourself, free of all ties and judging eyes; wasn’t that meant to be some sort of dream?

Then why did it have Butch curled up in the corner like a child after a nightmare?

There was meant to be something said or done for this. If only the boy didn’t have such an odd life that Reginald had no clue left how to handle him now.

“...Oh dash it!” He eventually sighed, bringing Butch’s head up. “Look, I’ll take this to my grave if not, but, hell; do you want a hug, Butch?”

Butch was looking like a skittish wild creature sensing food on a human hand. He even gave a quick, little cock of his head before he grinned, crawling over without stopping into Reginald’s lap and settling straight down on his chest like it was home.

Slim arms wrapped around Reginald’s neck while his own were held up awkwardly half a foot above either side of the new warm, lithe body curled up between his legs and up his chest. _Oh heavens_ , they were actually... He eventually brought his arms down, at first placing them across Butch’s back, then tucking them in neatly around him in an actual embrace. When he did so, Butch made a small snuggling motion deeper into Reginald, causing no end of blood to flush his burning cheeks.

(And other parts that, of all places, Butch had to be resting his small, well-defined hipbones neatly on. But those were places a gentleman didn’t discuss until the rating of the story goes up.)

“Er... Feeling any better, old chap?” the Brit awkwardly tried, feeling completely out of his depth with something that involved pleasant physical contact between platonic friends.

When he looked down, Butch’s eyes were closed and his face was in a peaceful smile resting on the buttons of the other’s shirt. Butch’s lips moved gently, saying, “I like this thing you call a hug, Reginald.”

“Ah, sorry. Doing it wrong am I?” This had always worked with comforting his father but that was family and not... awkward.

“I think you must be doing it just right, if I feel this super-duper,” Butch said. “I just... wouldn’t know. The only time I’ve experienced much of any touch is during fights or being manhandled about.”

“Oh... Of course...” Reginald tilted his face down, resting his mouth and chin comfortably against the top of Butch’s sandy hair. Not even that...

“But I saw you in that one photo, with all the paint.” Butch had a bit of a smirk to his voice. Reginald had seen him watching the photos in his frame the evenings they picked Reginald’s room to hang out in. Although Butch never said anything about them, he had obviously been drawn to watching the scenes from Reginald’s home with his family. That particular picture was of a little him in his father’s lap being hugged, both of them covered in his father’s paint which had been an adorable moment before they were straight away ordered to have baths and clean up the mess. “It must have been nice...”

“Are you jealous at all about it?”

“No,” Butch answered honestly. “But I’d like to stay here for a little while now, if that’s good for you; I’m so strangely tired of holding up my own weight just now...” He was beginning to look and sound a little drowsy.

“Absolutely fine, dear thing...” This hug was turning out to be a soporific for the both of them at this rate. Reginald too found himself dozing slightly, still resting his lower head against the crown of Butch’s as his body relaxed to the light weight on top of it. Butch was worryingly light, perhaps, but there was just something about the idea of worrying now that was ridiculous.

With the two of them resting together so serenely, everything was falling away. There was no engine noise, no moving or banging of people being human all around them in corridors – The corridors were just memories of places now, after all.

There was just a little, comfy bed, with a bit of wall on two sides for a back and arm to rest against. Even their legs began to fade, lying neatly together one pair inside the other. One set of arms around a back, and another set of arms around a neck. Two heads resting quietly. One body breathing imperceptibly together.

Someone asked to hear stories, even the dullest and the worst, for that one set of memories to finally have a copy somewhere. Then no destruction or death could bring that oblivion any longer.

Someone else began to tell; how a smiling child walking down a street alone looked like they safely had a parent waiting just around the corner no matter how they felt inside, of always drifting on each time there was pain, danger or too many questions and so often meaning nothing to no one.

You never hang around long enough to mean anything.

No, well, I wouldn’t like to be a burden. It’s up to me to care for my life, if I insist on keeping it for just... silly, little me...

Well, from now on, you’re keeping it for me too.

And there was just one other thing that existed then. It burnt like a bullet, flew like a looping pelican and when eyes met, felt like they had each swallowed one half of the same sticky grenade.

* * *

H[](http://68.media.tumblr.com/824e7eadad5ac79cb3ee26f2a61c3fc1/tumblr_npt0yf32uV1qdvnuio1_500.png)appyFunBallXD drew this amazingly cute picture from this chapter of my story and I love it! [You can also find it here](http://happyfunballxd.tumblr.com/post/121387840152/so-theres-this-great-fic-ive-been-reading-on) and be sure to check out the rest of her super art while you're there!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, from now on I'm thinking of doing weekly updates at weekends. By that time of the week, I'm getting Red vs. Blue withdrawals waiting for the next episode so I hope I can help any other sufferers through too.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who leaves kudos and comments. They really help keep me going with such a long story so it'd be really nice to hear from anyone who has been enjoying this story so far, whatever you want to say.
> 
> So we're finally getting there with the romance, everyone. Next time, is there actually any chance of either of them admitting it though?  
> Also, there will hopefully be more bonus art since I got no complaints last time. It's not just a silly, little sketch either this time.


	7. Cowboy Crumpets

“Ah, York my lad; how’s the nose?” Wyoming tried to sit down casually at his usual corner of the Freelancers’ table but that was rather a difficult thing with everyone staring at him like he’d swapped their pillows for landmines during the night.

“S’all right,” York sniffed a bit, tapping at the pad taped on it. “That little guy’s got one hell of a nasty punch.” He sounded a little nasal but his voice wasn’t as disfigured as last night anymore.

“Talking of,” Carolina quickly jumped in, “where’s Florida?”

“Ah.”

“That was one long explanation you must have gotten from him last night, Wyoming,” she continued, giving him a good, smiling glare.

“Sorry, more important matters and all that. Comforting friends and... whatnot.” He tried to turn to his breakfast quickly now he was going to get called out for staying in Butch’s room until... Well, it had been very late when he got back to his own bed. “He sends his apologies and said he felt too awful about the whole thing to show his face today.”

“Why not?” C.T. asked. “York’s showing his face and that looks pretty awful.”

York said, “Hey,” but it came out more like, “Ney.”

“So?” Carolina asked more seriously.

Wyoming sighed, setting down his spoon before he’d even begun. He had to drink his tea though, for strength. “All right. I’ll tell you all if I must.” When he had mentioned it to Butch the other agent had been all for letting them know if it helped team relations. “Butch has had quite an odd life, you see. Orphaned at birth, living homeless by seven, never settling anywhere for more than six months at a time; he has no friends or family and practically no official documentation. Aside from the boy’s own memories,” And now Wyoming’s own partial set he intended to continue adding to, “all he has to show for his whole life is a collection of pictures and written notes he keeps in that box.” He frowned as gravely as he could over his tea mug at York. “When you nearly took his whole life away for a game last night, I’d say it’s pretty understandable he’d be rather miffed.”

“Really?” York sighed and bowed his head a bit, shaking it. “Wow, yeah, no wonder there...”

“Yes,” Wyoming disdainfully agreed. “I would have thought you might realise that inside a locked room where he has barely anything to keep, a locked box inside of a locked foot locker might be rather a valuable thing, eh?”

York sighed again. “Man. Do you know when he’s training today? I feel I ought to apologise.”

Wyoming smirked. “Glad to hear that you feel that way, but Butch won’t hear an apology; says you deserve one instead for the blow to your nose.” It was obvious from his tone what the agent passing along this news thought about the affair however. “Too kind-hearted that chap...”

“Well, was he all right last night?” York asked instead, if he shouldn’t apologise.

“Just dreadful at first; the poor thing was barely smiling,” Wyoming joked, beginning on his cereal finally. “I sorted him out in the end though. Back to grinning like a light bulb by the time I turned in for the night.”

The whole table was getting that look again, that leaning in, sly tugging at one corner of the mouth, look.

“So...” North began, savouring that moment before everyone leapt in for the first strike.

“Oh bugger...”He should have seen it coming from York’s luring set-up line.

Maine grunted from the other end of the table. He normally just kept his head down in his food and gruffly chuckled about this sort of thing while the others had their fun. “Fucked the sad right outta him.” Not today though.

Maybe he hadn’t meant it to be that loud, but now the whole table was in uproarious laughter and getting those looks from all the other tables various staff sat at.

By now, Wyoming had plenty of practice when it came to eating through tight lips. Florida tended to just laugh along and enjoy himself and it often raised a wry smile out of Wyoming too in the end, but not today. “Yes, yes...”

“Add any pictures to the box? Any _special_ ones for when he’s alone at night?” C.T. asked. She always did love jumping in on the subject particularly.

“I don’t think they ever have nights alone now, if you know what I mean.” North seemed to find it sweet, and be very approving.

“Who’d want to take pictures of _him_ anyway? Especially... ugh! Don’t **ever** suggest that again C.T.!” South just used it as an excuse to attack Wyoming personally; she had never liked him much for some reason, unless her insults were some form of violently backwards flirting.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t send you on an _undercovers_ mission last night, Agent Wyoming.” Carolina just seemed to be in it for some sort of sadistic joy. Her jokes tended to be pretty good though.

And then there was, as always, York and Wash.

“Don’t you worry now, Reginald darling!” York began in some sort of an impression. Was it meant to be Butch? It sounded like a camp cowboy. He had grasped Wash’s hand across the table with histrionic passion anyway. “No matter what that dashing, handsome York steals, you’ve already stolen my heart!”

Wash gaped for a moment before nervously trying, “Oh, I luv you too, mate! Now, givvus a kiss... crumpet?” in the most horrendous cockney accent anyone present had ever heard.

Everyone turned to glare at the one who dared let down their joke, even Wyoming.

And then the bread rolls started flying.

Well, at least the children had gotten out a week’s worth of their usual fun then, Wyoming supposed.

However, he began to wonder how long now until the comments were all too uncomfortably true.

* * *

Florida miraculously appeared in the rec room to join the group again exactly five minutes after York had been to medical and finally had the healing pad removed from his nose two days later. Nothing was said, apart from Florida’s cheery hellos and then compliments on South’s new, barely noticeable haircut. She told him to get bent. He said over what?

After the shoe had been dodged – And it wasn’t even South’s shoe that she’d thrown – Florida had settled happily on the arm of Wyoming’s chair in the corner. The other agent had his notebook and pen out, the old-fashioned thing, but of course snapped it shut the instant anyone had gotten within three metres of him like always. Even Florida had to admit he didn’t know what Wyoming was always writing in there with such secrecy; no one did. He had just always done it if he wasn’t joining in with conversation or reading a book. There were bets, as with almost everything on this ship. The current favourite was 2-1 odds on love letters for Florida, closely followed by 3-1, love poems for Florida. A diary, thoughts about tea and moustache-powered world-domination plans were also on the table.

In the end, Florida and Wyoming never went through with their plan to get revenge for the box incident, as much fun as it had been to plot. Not unless the rumour that York had been seen leaving Wash’s room in a sexy cat costume, which soon started circulating, had been started by either of them.

The incident with Butch’s box had left Reginald with the feeling it was about time he called home again. It turned out that asking the two men who had raised him for advice on his current quandary was one of the most embarrassing things he could have ever done, even if he came away with some not too awful sounding advice.

On Butch’s part, of all people he didn’t even end up asking a person. It just sort of slipped out to FILSS during a training session when she had noticed he seemed rather preoccupied, if he didn’t mind her saying. He didn’t, and even if it turned out that integrated logistics and security systems weren’t much good when it came to this kind of sticky pickle, he was very grateful for the help all the same.

They still sat together every possible mealtime, either at their corner of the Freelancers’ table or in their own, special corner of the mess room which **no one** used, ever, if they knew what was good for them, which was not interfering with anything Agent Florida had a claim on. However, they used their corner less, and spent less evenings privately in one or the other’s rooms now, preferring the company of the other Freelancers wherever possible. Both did this for the same reason without ever making any mention of it to the other.

This had the undesired side-effect of exposing them to more teasing, despite the reduced private time they were spending together. It was as tolerable as ever and now almost enjoyable, in a masochistic way, to have their minds supplied with all manner of appealing ideas on a somewhat regular basis.

They rarely rose to it, past a few playful but friendly additions from Florida, because the one occasion that Wyoming did flirt for the first real time happened to be on the day before they were assigned a mission together. It was a target elimination, one that involved a lot of patient waiting on the same rooftop for an unpredictable target to arrive. Much of the day was spent watching the street below, waiting for their mark to come and enter the building they were stationed on. Most of that waiting was spent not discussing what had happened last night.

Both kept replaying it in their minds however.

Wyoming continually forced himself to dismiss the memory from his thoughts out of the intense embarrassment he suffered each time it was recalled. Then he would happen to glance at his partner before long due to the tedium and need to keep aware of potential signs of their mark. When he did so, he would flush with humiliation inside his helmet, his mind would automatically try to remember why, recall the incident and the cycle began all over again. In his defence, his only real defence, Butch had been wearing cute, grey overalls with very short shorts that showed off nearly the entirety of his long, slim, gorgeously tan legs which made Reginald very flustered all evening.

Since Wyoming had the sniper rifle and could see their target approaching more easily, Florida also had to look regularly at his partner for signs and each time would remember. He’d turn it over in his mind, assessing it even after a night of the same sleepless evaluation with no result, looking for the meaning, chalking up marks in both columns as to whether it has been serious or just a joke.

Having barely slept, on top of all the other restless nights he had been having lately, Florida silently moved across the rooftop an hour or so after they had eaten a quick lunch of field rations in turn. He tapped Wyoming’s elbow lightly, receiving a quick glance and nod before the sniper continued watching for the target.

Florida grasped silently for words for a moment, thinking of how he was going to admit this. “I... I need a nap, if you don’t mind...” he murmured as stealthily as his shame could.

After watching something for a second further, Wyoming turned from his rifle’s sights to look at the other agent. “A nap?” he repeated and the frown inside his helmet could be heard. “Now?” His disdain for the unprofessionalism was equally apparent.

Florida winced slightly inside his armour, eyes struggling to stay open without long blinks of sheer exhaustion. He thought about how he could phrase the why, all the awkward questions it might lead to, the other questions that kept him awake at night. And Wyoming was looking at him, just waiting and so obviously unimpressed. “...Please?” Nearly 6 months of best friendship had to account for something, his pitiful whimper hoped.

Wyoming sighed. “All right, mate.” He turned back to his rifle. “Just 30 minutes, mind.”

“Thank you.” Florida lay down to start immediately, pillowing his helmet on his arms as his body curled up on one side across a patch of the gravelly roof topping. “I sleep and wake up very easily, just so you know,” he thought to mention quietly.

“Glad to hear it,” Wyoming remarked, sounding a little less disgruntled. “Hope you don’t mind my using an elbow as an alarm clock when the time comes.”

“Not at all...” Florida grinned as he drifted off.

The 30 minutes passed uninterrupted by their mission. Wyoming took the opportunity to have a quick look at his friend’s sleeping form a few times, just for curious purposes. The smaller man slept very much like Wyoming had seen neighbourhood cats do in the sun, half-curled, half-relaxed; they could be up on their feet in an instant in case of attack, or roll over onto their back and tempt you into scritching their tummy if they liked you.

He shook his head sharply, returning his attention down the scope of his rifle, not leaving it on Florida’s partly-armoured, very tempting stomach.

His mind wandered whilst it awaited movement. Every passing car or person prompted him back into action, checking it against their briefing details he had memorised. In the moments between, he found images of a younger Butch sleeping like that in back alleys and alcoves creeping into mind. He had never seen any pictures of the other agent in his youth, if he could be considered to have even left it yet, and Butch always maintained he had very rarely been homeless over the years but there was something about that sort of image that always grabbed him.  
Maybe it was the allure of everything his childhood hadn’t been. Not that he would ever trade in the stability, the love and family, the affluence and simple daily joys of those things. Butch’s freedom may have come with a fantastic variety of experiences but it had also brought pain he could barely even admit to. So far, most of the memories Reginald had heard were the happy ones, the exciting or funny ones Butch loved to tell. There were countless ones that brought a pained shadow to Butch’s face for fleeting seconds still yet to be shared. Reginald hoped each time they would be opened, that his simple act of listening could heal something.  
Maybe Butch didn’t want those memories living on though. He never wanted his pain and suffering to be forgotten, but he would never bring it out either. Keeping it all inside, for no use... _“Let it go, or let me use it to love you, you damn pillock...”_ That was it; a stupid, noble fancy he could perform some sort of miracle and earn undying devotion and love from it. All along it was his own selfish desire, making use of the fact Butch felt his very life wasn’t wanted by anyone else.

Unwanted? _“Ludicrous, mate.”_ Oh, he was wanted. A beautiful, brilliantly-minded but damaged boy? _“There’s perfect and then there’s inconveniently irresistible...”_ He hadn’t realised it would happen from the start at all. Back then it had truly had been honest friendship. It had taken until about a month ago when the incident with the box had Butch finally pour a little of his dark, desperate heart out to him and Reginald became hooked. He needed to hear that weakness and anguish inside the one he had so much admiration and desire for. To have them need him, depend on him, trust him like that; they were such good ways in.

Like a hunter’s instincts, when he saw the wound, he saw the place to strike for a kill.

_“You’re a sick fool, you know, Reginald old boy...”_

Wyoming sighed and stared down his sniper rifle some more. Damn this mission; it gave him too much time to think.

Florida ended up stirring five minutes before Wyoming would have elbowed him anyway. He stretched his body out along the rooftop, not wanting to stand and be potentially visible. Wyoming forced himself not to watch that lithe, arousing display of the other agent’s slender, dark-clad body as the assassin limbered himself up again in preparation. Florida had been doing that throughout the day, every hour or so, to keep ready for when the hit went down and it was driving his partner insane.

Clearing his throat slightly, Wyoming shifted his hips where he lay, rousing his lower body again after too long lying still. “Ah, refreshed and ready now, are we?”

“Like a raring daisy!”

It was another one of those moments where Wyoming had to blink and marvel at Florida’s... treatment of the English language. “Er, you’re mixing your metaphors a bit there, mate.”

“Oh.” Florida sounded illogically pleased. “Like fruit salad? Variety is very important in a diet after all, so I’m sure the same goes for language.”

Wyoming despaired his friend wasn’t quite as educated at times enough to match him. But conversely it always meant an opportunity to teach Florida something, for which he was always eager to learn, and that was yet another way to make him gratefully dependent.

In another 20 minutes, their target finally arrived, rolling up into a nearby street to park and then walking into the small research building they awaited him on. Watching the entrance, they waited five minutes then Wyoming gave the nod for Florida to enter. The sniper stayed up on the roof, covering the exit point at the front – they had already barricaded the back and didn’t expect a window jump from the higher floors – whilst the assassin swung himself over the side of the roof, acrobatically slipping in a window they had left open in preparation.

All Wyoming heard over their helmet radios was the quiet sound of Florida breathing as he made his silent, death-like way through to the room their target was in. He had gone in through a bathroom and made his way to one of the offices. Wyoming had to listen to Florida’s kind-hearted cooing as he told their target not to struggle or he’d miss their heart and this would be a lot more painful than it had to be. Just faintly, so faintly it might have been imagination, there was a crunching stab and a muffled scream. Florida sighed, reminding the target he had told them not to resist and this was their fault now in a very disapproving tone. A second later, “There now; that wasn’t so bad. A pleasure doing business with you,” it seemed their work was done and small sounds of searching began to come through the radio.

“All done and dusted?”

“Things are just peachy down here!” Florida chirped back. “Well, except the carpet. That looks a little more like cherries now.” He sounded thoughtfully concerned. “I’ll leave the number of a good cleaner on the desk.”

Wyoming chuckled. “Good show. On my way to the car now.” He moved to the back of the roof, already beginning to climb down.

“I’ll be just two shakes!” They had to recover some data stored here, as well as eliminating the man who had learnt of and subsequently stolen it. “Keep your engine running for me!”

He just had to say it like that...

Wyoming sat in the driver’s seat, waiting. It was only a moment later he heard Florida say he’d set the EMP before the agent came leaping out of a window, onto the boxes they had used as a barricade before swinging into the passenger seat of the car through the windowless window. It made the Brit feel like he was in some awful buddy film.

When he brought it up, he really wished he hadn’t due to the practical squeal of excitement it produced from his partner. “Oh my Google, yes! You brilliant man; I have been just _dying_ to bring this up!” Suddenly, York’s impression of Butch as a camp cowboy wasn’t sounding too far off. “We could absolutely be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!” Not far off at all...

“Er, right?”

“I saw it once in one of those old cinemas,” Florida began rambling enthusiastically, putting his legs up casually on the dashboard as they drove to avoid the small, timed EMP they had left to wipe out all equipment in the research facility. “I’ve always loved cowboys and then there just had to be one with the same name I’d chosen for myself! They were such good partners; the charismatic, friendly Butch and then his tough, dead-shot Sundance Kid – He even has a moustache, although it’s not even half as wonderful as yours is. And it’s even set in Wyoming! Do you believe in reincarnation?” He looked to the driver with such delight you could practically see it glowing out of his helmet.

Well, that did sound remarkably... coincidental. And somehow Wyoming wasn’t surprised his partner was into cowboys of all things; the freedom, self-reliance and all that. He just wished he hadn’t let his mouth say, “Well, can’t deny you wouldn’t look spot on in a cowboy hat, old thing.”

Agent Florida had then turned to him with great seriousness to insist, “If we drive by a hat shop on the way back, we are stopping and we are going in.”

Oh, why not? “Righty-o! Keep your eyes peeled then!”

It was worth it, every last reprimand, for the look on the Director’s face when he walked in to the debriefing to find Agent Florida wearing an off-white cowboy hat, and Agent Wyoming wearing a black one, perched tastefully on top of their helmets.

* * *

I promised better art this time and here it (hopefully) is! This is based off one of the DVD covers for 'Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid' I found. I really wish Rooster Teeth would actually make this a thing because it would be nothing but hilarious and perfect.

Next time, less shenanigans. Instead, Florida and Wyoming try to have a moment at a really inappropriate time.


	8. Warm Hands, Cold Heart

It happened during the mission that began with Wyoming telling everyone jovially, “Now don’t steal any instruments while we’re in there, chaps; it might lead to repercussions.” It had made Florida laugh, and only Florida. However, Florida had laughed so hard it made up completely for no one else doing it.

When it came to the drop-off point for their team Bravo, Carolina had practically kicked the two jokesters out the back of the pelican, sending them sprawling onto the ground below whilst Wash and York leapt down more gracefully. They weren’t thrilled about the team allocation, since Wyoming and Florida had become increasingly giddy and unpredictable around each other of late, but since they would mainly be working in their pairs infiltrating the institution together they shrugged and dealt with it.

The Freelancers had noticed they were dealing with a high number of research and development-related places during their missions, as well as insurrectionists. They were never allowed to ask why, but many had a sense that they weren’t always the entirely good guys keeping research out of evil hands when achieving their objectives. A lot seemed to require some sort of acquisition and elimination of anyone who could, say, claim that the research was actually theirs or tell people that it even existed and had now been appropriated by the Project.

But they didn’t ask about those things.

Team Bravo just had to get in, requiring York’s locksmith skills, and find the required data storage device, that was Florida and Wyoming’s task. Wash was just here to use his gun.

The infiltration went exceedingly smoothly, only having to take out a couple of guards with Wyoming’s sniping and disable a few security cameras through a similar method. They reached the main laboratory and York stepped up, rolling his head on his shoulders and making an exaggerated show of looking over the biometric scanner like it might pose a challenge for him.

“Well, hurry it up there,” Wyoming was getting a bit impatient after half a minute. Wash was antsy and looking around. Florida had actually wandered off a bit, seeming slightly thoughtful about something.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” York replied, having carefully taken off the front casing of the console to fiddle inside. “You can’t rush perfection.”

“Perfection, eh?” Wyoming found himself looking over at Florida, and then frowning. What was the other agent up to? “That would that be the same perfection that tripped the alarms at the robotics institute, yes?”

“That wasn’t my fault.” York grunted slightly with the effort of reaching some of the fiddly wires. “South punched it. I ask you; what kind of lock does she think opens to a punch?”

Wash wasn’t sure, but he had heard, “I thought she only punched it because you were taking too long-”

“Okay, not helping,” the locksmith declared end of conversation. “...You didn’t seem to mind my perfection when I was saving your sorry ass during the fire-fight, Wyoming.”

“From a situation which I wouldn’t have been in had you done your job properly, old chap.”

“Hey, I was-!”

“Now, now boys.” Florida had come back over to placate them. “I’m sure if Agent York could be doing his work any faster, he would be. Isn’t that right?” He crouched down by the fiddling locksmith.

“Yeah, sure... Say, you’ve got small hands, Florida?” He glanced to the other agent.

Florida held up his hands for self-inspection. “I suppose they’re smaller than some.”

“Can you reach in and get that blue wire out for me?”

“Come on, York!” Wash was getting very anxious now, swinging his gun about as if expecting an enemy at every corner in sight.

“I literally just need to get this blue wire where I can reach it, okay?” he defended whilst Florida wormed his little finger into the console the best he could. “Any luck?”

“Afraid not,” Florida said, before removing his helmet to everyone’s surprise.

“What are you-?”

“Now, York,” Florida chastised kindly as he fiddled with his hairclips, “what kind of lock-pick goes on a mission without a hairclip?” A second later, he had neatly fished out one blue wire. “Even I can pick a lock with a hairclip.”

“Thanks.” York connected it straight away to another wire, overriding the system and allowing the doors to open. “We’ll keep our exit clear; get it quickly.”

Wyoming and Florida nodded, moving in instantly whilst the other agents took up guarding positions just outside the door frame.

Florida replaced his helmet as they began scanning the large laboratory room. There were plenty of desks and computers it could be plugged into or stored in a drawer of. Nothing stood out so they had to search methodically through the room, having no luck until- “Ah! There’s the little bugger!” Wyoming spotted and pointed through a window separating the main lab from a smaller side room used for storage.

His partner got there and slipped in first, seizing the small, rectangular device from its docking station on the desk. He turned with a triumphant thumbs up after a quick once-over and-

“Unauthorised access detected – Initiating laboratory lockdown.”

Florida’s gaze flicked back to the docking port, seeing and following the one small wire up the wall and along to- Damn!

Wyoming startled, looking about for what was locking down until he realised he was standing in it. “Oh, bloody hell!” He put his back against one side of the doorframe, lifting up both of his legs and pressing them firmly against the edge of the metal door trying to close on him. Pushing as hard as he could, with his power armour doing a lot of the work, he was just able to keep it barely moving. “This is not part of my job; I’m not a bloody doorstop!” Wyoming was grunting and straining, trying humour to keep strong under the intense pressure sending shooting daggers of pain through his entire lower body.

It only lasted a few seconds whilst Florida dashed for the door, diving under him and helping Wyoming to roll out safely without getting crushed, but the white agent could barely stand unassisted afterwards. “That was some dandy thinking there, Reggie.” Florida commended, supporting him but mainly devoting his attention to scanning the room again.

The entrance they had come in by had closed, locked down like the other door. Thankfully, there were no grey or brown bits crushed in it but now York and Wash were nowhere to be seen. They must have been trapped outside.

Florida flicked on his helmet radio. “Agents York, Wash?” He heard sounds of movement and gunfire, but then a, _“Yeah?”_ “Get yourselves out safely; we’ll find our own way.”

After a quick acknowledgement, they were left alone.

“I thought there weren’t enough guards here...” Florida was murmuring again whilst he continued looking around. That must have been what he was noticing earlier. “Reginald, do I need to carry you?” He cast a glance back for his friend though.

“I’m not a dratted invalid; I can hobble,” Wyoming grumbled, managing to move by himself so long as he leant on a desk. He could limp along but it was obviously not without considerable pain.

“Oh, this team would be positively lost without that wonderful British bull spirit of yours! Let’s get us out of here then!” Florida ran quickly over to inspect the point he’d seen in the wall, regardless of the insensitivity of running in front of the half-crippled agent.

“Bulldog spirit, mate...” Wyoming corrected in a struggling wince, limping over in pursuit. “What have you got?”

Agent Florida was standing by a peculiar aperture in the wall, one hand to his helmet’s chin thoughtfully. “I do believe it’s both a contraption for transporting equipment between rooms and our way out.”

“Marvellous. We’re going out through a blasted serving hatch...” Wyoming slumped against the wall near it and muttered.

“Aw, now I know you’re only swearing so much because you’re okay really.” Florida pushed at some of the buttons beside it experimentally. “...And thanks for not mentioning it was my fault,” he added more quietly.

“Don’t mention it, mate. I didn’t much fancy getting crushed myself either.” The mechanism began to whir softly. “Just get us out of here alive and give me that bag of skittles you’ve been saving.”

“Aw! But they’re my favourite.” Florida mock-complained, peering through the flaps on the square opening. “Well, would you look at that? We don’t even need to crawl.” He gestured to the moving conveyor belt inside.

“Good bloody job.” Wyoming pushed himself up off the wall, steady but uncomfortable. “You first, old chap. A kitten could get the drop on me in this state.”

Florida nodded, swinging in with his normal grace feet-first.

Wyoming gave him a moment then hoisted himself in as well, just barely fitting, but glad of the small comfort that being moved along lying down provided.

The tunnel was a lot longer than he’d anticipated. He felt as if he had been moving for 20 full seconds when he started to get just a little claustrophobic in the enclosed passage. Although he had gone in headfirst, Wyoming could see no light nor partner ahead now. He began to worry slightly.

Until he tumbled out suddenly through the covering flaps into an unlit room headfirst, landing gracelessly in a crumpled, groaning pile.

Florida sniggered but then helped him up.

“Well, that didn’t make me look like an utter prat...” Wyoming muttered sarcastically, regaining his uncomfortable balance as they stayed quiet and surveyed the new room. It appeared to be a storage for electronic parts and chemicals with a sink, plenty of small glass bottles and so forth.

This room thankfully wasn’t locked down. With the uninjured Florida taking the lead, assault rifle in hands, they made their way out from this room into the corridors.

All went perfectly, if slowly, giving Wyoming enough time to regain a basic walking speed, until the final stage.

They had emerged into some sort of high, narrow tunnel. At the far end were doors, thankfully, either for a fire exit or to let vehicles out. In front of those doors, unfortunately, were guards waiting for them.

The guards were witless enough that the two Freelancers had enough time to take cover behind the cover of a conveniently stacked set of metal crates near their entrance. The crates weren’t high so they dived down, Florida pushing the currently less agile Wyoming first and then diving after him.

Florida hadn’t meant to land with his head in Wyoming’s crotch though.

“Are you all right?” they both asked the other, quickly establishing that neither was any more than just a bit winded.

They were pinned down, the half a dozen guards firing continuously upon their position as if they expected them to pop out or the metal of the crates to give. Wyoming was sat with his back pressed to the crates, facing away from where the enemy was, and he could feel the vibrations of every bullet smashing the other side; maybe they wouldn’t hold out.

He was also sat with his legs splayed rather wide, as he’d fallen, but Florida had at least picked himself up out of the other’s lap now, glancing at the direction of the enemy, then Wyoming, then the enemy again. He seemed to want to look only at his fellow agent, but something about the incessant storm of bullets flying at them appeared to distract him.

“...About the landing on your crotch just then,” Florida began pensively.

“It’s fine, mate,” Wyoming assured him. “No harm done.”

“I’m not sorry about it,” Florida said, looking straight at him. “I’m afraid I liked being there too much to be sorry about it.”

Wyoming stared at his mate.

“...Ah.” Or not just his mate. “So... I take it this means you’re interested in me then?”

Butch sat up more properly, cross-legged and directly facing him. He looked like a 6-year-old sitting in assembly as the bullets pinged off the wall just above his head. “Yes, Reginald; I have given it a lot of thought and I would be interested in beginning a romantic relationship with you.” He said it in the happy version of his _this-is-serious-business_ tone.

“...Ah.”

A couple of dead bullets landed in Butch’s lap during the silent, gunfire-filled moment that followed. He brushed them out casually without looking, watching for Reginald’s answer instead.

There was a question so obvious Reginald didn’t even bother to ask it. Instead he glanced aside, then turned back to Butch and frowned, despite the effect being lost inside his helmet. “Well, why didn't you say anything sooner, you infernal nincompoop? Then I wouldn’t have been stuck worrying about what your blasted response would be while _I_ worried about it for the past month and a half!” Yes, he was frustrated, but it wasn’t without some pleasure.

Butch sat and thought, looking up at some of the bullets ricocheting overhead. “...They’re really very wasteful here, firing all these bullets like this,” he commented nonchalantly, watching a few bounce off onto the floor by his foot.

“Butch, you blighter! Why didn’t you say anything?!” Reginald pressed, adjusting the sniper rifle in his lap.

“Because every time that I brought it up, you got so terribly awkward and I didn’t want to keep making you uncomfortable! That wouldn’t have been a very friendly thing to do!” Butch’s voice was filled with a panicked reproach that Reginald had never heard before. “...And I didn’t want to destroy our wonderful friendship either...” He pressed all his fingertips together, flexing his hands a few times in the first nervous tic Agent Florida had ever displayed.

Butch seemed like a child before him now, as ever when he got truly emotional. “...I got uncomfortable because I thought you were just joking while I was serious about the thing. Sorry for the mix-up.” Reginald shifted awkwardly, pressing his back closer to the box.

Butch watched a bullet jump and spin over the box, clinking to the ground beside the other agent’s right foot. “You thought I was just joking? Then, were you just joking when you...” He struggled to even bring it up now without a slight blush in his helmet, “or was that the same awful testing I’ve been performing on you?”

“It was a test, but I think I came on a bit strong, what? Oh Lord...” That was the last time he was listening to the advice he got from home when it came to these matters. Hopefully it was the last time he would have to anyway. “Anyway, I had an inkling about you, dear chap, but I couldn’t risk...” His voice trailed off with the bullets, leading to a confused silence of, “Are they dead?” from the other of the faint tunnel.

“Oh, Reginald!” Butch laughed softly, crouching up on his knees slightly and returning fire that lead to one scream of death before the guards resumed firing at them. “Did you really think I’d reject you as a friend if you said anything? I’ve obviously not been tolerant enough if you thought that.”

“I seem to recall you having some of the same concerns yourself, mate,” Reginald said back, turning over and slipping his sniper rifle into the slight crease between two boxes in time with the rhythm of gunfire. He got another guard successfully.

“Ah, well...” Butch pushed his fingertips together a couple of times again as Reginald sat back down, his back to the crate again.

“And, I, er...” the other man continued, running one gloved palm up and down the barrel of his rifle with equal unease. “I’ll only say this because I know you’re a very accepting chap, but I, hmm,” he struggled a bit. “I... had some concerns, about the whole idea.”

There was the slight clanging of metal in the distance as two of the guards tried to climb onto the thin, metal walkways running along near the ceiling of the tunnel. “Well, isn’t that a neat coinky-dink? I had some too.” Butch nervously admitted, tossing a grenade up onto the walkway above them whilst staring down at an awkward patch of the floor.

The explosion shook the whole frame up there, one black metal panel falling to the ground with an almighty bang. “Ah, hm.” Reginald turned and shot the two guards clinging to the violently quivering ladder for dear life with ease.

The remaining two or three guards opened up with another barrage of incessant fire that left the two Freelancers pinned down for a while. “I really don’t mind hearing out whatever you have to say, Reginald,” Butch assured him, patting one of his white boots lightly. “You’re the most important friend in my life right now and I’d like to prove I’m here for you. Don’t worry about my feelings now; this is more important for both of us.”

“Well stop talking like that then...” Reginald muttered. “You don’t need to do your scout-leader bit with me now of all times.”

Butch deflated a bit, letting his true tension show as he hunched up slightly, still sitting cross-legged again. “...Sorry; you’re right about that. This is just one of the most difficult things I’ve ever dealt with...”

The boy had been living all alone as a complete nomad since he was 7 and _this_ was one of the most difficult things? It didn’t sound as if he was exaggerating though.

Reginald imagined Butch probably had more issues to deal with here, if that was the case, as he watched the bullets slamming into the wall slightly less than a foot above the other’s blue helmet. But maybe he needed Reginald to go first then. “...You’re a pretty damaged and unbalanced thing, Butch, to my eyes. You’re just a boy making a damn good show of being a man, since you never had the chance to properly grow up with all that surviving.”

Butch laced his fingers and rotated his thumbs together. “...I know.” He was tired again, so tired of holding it all up and trying too hard.

“That’s not my issue though,” Reginald admitted, earning a slight raise of Butch’s helmet. “My issue is how I see that as a way into you; a way I can play the saviour and get you devoted to me for life. You’re so bloody brilliant in every single way but then you had to show me a crack, show me how weak and dark you really are. It’d be so damn easy to get in there by helping you...”

“So?” Butch said a bit desperately, obviously not seeing the problem still.

Reginald sighed, lowering his head. “I don’t want to help just so I can use it to take advantage of you, mate...”

More dead bullets had fallen into Butch’s lap. He didn’t brush them out this time. “...So you’re going to stop helping me?” Reginald couldn’t tell if he was terrified or furious; Butch’s tone was clipped and straight.

“I don’t ever want to,” Reginald insisted grimly, “but I won’t be able to stop myself if I do because I love you too damn much!”

In another rattling, pinging silence, Butch glanced away. _It_ was on the table now.

“That and, well,” Reginald continued more lightly, feeling uncomfortable if he didn’t make at least a small joke, so he pointed up at the bullets flying overhead, “you know. Not the best time and place for a relationship, constant danger and all that.”

Butch wasn’t looking. He wasn’t even looking at the bullets tearing past. He was staring into somewhere else when his one hand went up, clenching on the top of his royal blue breastplate. “...Why does it hurt so much?”

“Hm?”

“I... I thought love was a meant to be nice, friendly thing,” Butch murmured in tired distress, “but now it’s making you say things like that-”

“Now, hang on! I’m not saying-”

“And every time I look at you or think about you, for this past month and a half it... it’s hurting me, Reginald. And I’m sure that’s not right.” He held on even harder, looking back again. “I do apologise; I thought I wanted a relationship with you, but perhaps that’s not the best idea then. I certainly wouldn’t want to start something that wasn’t right for us-”

“Wait! Dash it, I wasn’t saying no!” This wasn’t going right; this was something spiralling backwards into a catastrophe.

“Weren’t you?” Butch asked seriously, managing to induce enough doubt. “Well nonetheless, I think I deserve the shiny blue ribbon for the thickest head this time; it’s kept me up half of every night for all that time and would you just look? I still arrived at the wrong answer.” He laughed weakly at himself, patting his thighs. “I wanted to think it was love but I guess it wasn’t that easy. Gosh, now I don’t know _what_ it is I feel for you, Reginald.”

He didn’t know? He’d said all that, been flirting and worrying about it for a month and a half, even asked for a relationship just minutes ago and now decided it _wasn’t_ love?

How hard was it to tell?! Reginald had been certain within days because surely everyone knew what love was? Even if you couldn’t describe it, everyone grew up with it all around them, in family and friends and-

Who was there to love an orphaned, transient boy? There might have been people, but if Butch couldn’t recognise it no wonder he always ended up moving on, feeling unwanted. Maybe he really couldn’t tell? And of course, if he got confused and thought it was hurting him...

Good Lord... “What you’re feeling for me,” Reginald kindly informed him; “it’s love, Butch,”

There was a moment, before Butch’s gloved hands clenched with a squeak and he tensed up in a blaze. “ **How do you know?!** ”

The sound of the shout startled the guards at the other end of the tunnel into pausing for a moment.

The dark blue agent stood up and shot them both dead, not even caring when they started firing on him again.

“All clear.” Agent Florida strode away past the crates, assault rifle still in hands.

Reginald was still reeling from the first time Butch had ever raised his voice. He stumbled to his feet, aching legs numb, jogging after the other agent. “Butch...”

“I think it’s probably for the best,” he said tiredly. “I don’t know a thing about love or commitment and, as you rightly pointed out, I’m unstable in many senses of the word. Besides, I’ve been here just about six months now.” They made the walk along the tunnel together, but Reginald lagged behind. His friend wasn’t waiting for him or even looking back. “I’ve never managed to stay anywhere longer than six months before.” Almost as if Butch wanted to leave him behind.

“Butch, wait...” Reginald wasn’t sure if he was asking physically, for his legs, or because-

There was a loud explosion in the distance, shaking them a bit. Luckily, Reginald still had his sniper rifle in hand for support. Alpha team was done with their mission then; extraction was in 10 minutes.

“I don’t know if I can,” Butch said, either way.

They made it back to the pelican in time, although Agent Wyoming was practically dead on his feet as he collapsed into his seat and got ready for taking off. Florida confirmed they had the Bravo team objective still and after that, no one talked to them for the rest of the flight. Everyone looked ragged and uncertain.

Things hadn’t gone well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well gosh, you don't see many happy romances where it goes like that, do you?
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's left kudos and comments! I know I don't have a very big readership at the moment so each and every one of you mean a lot to me.
> 
> Next time, after the little nuke Florida just set off there, what will be left in the fallout?


	9. Goodnight Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is pretty short compared to the rest. I can only apologise and promise next time will be longer.

The debriefing wasn’t going to be simple and painless. Alpha team was even down a member with South in medical and C.T. already looked distraught enough about causing it before the Director had even gotten to them.

He had started on Bravo team, perhaps as a warm-up.

York and Wash had done their part acceptably, getting out successfully without injury or too much chaos. As for the other pair however, “Although your objective was achieved, you were slow, Agents Florida and Wyoming,” the Director drawled at them harshly. “Had it not been for Team Alpha’s simultaneous mess up,” He shot a quick glare down the line, “you might not have made it in time for extraction.”

“Sir, I feel I really must own up!” Florida spoke up, standing a bit more rigidly to do so. “That little slip-up was entirely my fault; I could kick myself but I should have noticed the security system it was attached to.”

“You should of, Agent Florida,” the Director agreed reproachfully, frowning through his glasses. “However, you were lucky and you did your job of achieving the objective regardless of the change in circumstances as is expected of your role.” There were no congratulations, just a nod.

“Thank you, Sir!” Florida sighed with relief at just that.

“As for Alpha team,” And now the Director was done with them, moving along the soldiers lined up at ease in parade, “something similar applies...” He went on acknowledging they had completed their mission but gone gravely off-plan as it went on. Each agent in turn had their faults to answer for, except South Dakota who had been too injured to have incurred many mistakes; hers were read to C.T. instead.

Bravo team were left simply to stand and feel uncomfortable about their shortcomings and proxy-embarrassed for the rest of the group still being reprimanded.

For Agent Wyoming, however, the long stand was uncomfortable in more ways than simply that.

His legs were aching again. They had never really stopped but the pelican ride back had been a blessed relief and enough rest to get him up here for debriefing without needing to lean on anything. He was beginning to struggle now though, the fire-like intensity of his sore thighs particularly wearing him down so that every few moments he felt likely to collapse backwards, and the effort to keep himself on his feet only fed the pain. In the current situation though, he didn’t want to test the Director’s mood even if he had escaped all but the most broad criticism for this mission.

Beside him, at the end of the line, Florida had to look past Wyoming to listen to the Director’s lecture, and in doing so he noticed the occasional slight swaying. He remained painfully aware of the harm he had caused his best friend to endure, and he was pretty sure it hurt more than his heart did right now.

Looking, he saw the Director and Counsellor both had their attention entirely on the Alpha team. Time really dragged during reprimands.

Florida’s hand drifted sideways slightly, blindly seeking the hand an inch next to it.

That hand flinched away from contact instinctively, before its brain thought a little and the hand decided it could relax closer to whatever was seeking it.

Florida’s hand brushed against its side lightly, checking the other hand felt comfortable and understood its intentions.

The other hand stayed, pressing its side against Florida’s through their gloves.

Florida’s hand sent its little finger out tentatively, displaying clearly at all times that it would retreat if its excursion made the other hand uncomfortable.

The other hand remained comfortable.

Florida’s little finger made its way through the small gap at the edge of the other hand carefully, curling gently around its counterpart in apology.

The other hand’s little finger curled up around it in return, squeezing back with quiet affection.

It wasn’t enough. Such little fingers couldn’t convey that much guilt, regret and heartbreak. They luckily couldn’t say a goodbye that would destroy so much if it was true.

Neither Agent Florida or Wyoming moved, looked or acknowledged it when they eventually left the room.

Wyoming had to go to medical now.

Florida had too many regrets to follow him.

* * *

C.T. had gone along to the medical bay as well, and now was stuck waiting with Wyoming whilst South got the bulk of the doctors’ attention. Neither said anything, C.T. sitting glumly on the edge of one bed slightly hunched over, Wyoming laid out across another resting his legs. The small, dark brown agent had her back to him and both had their helmets off.

“...What happened to you?” Eventually she got tired of waiting in silence.

“Had to prop a door open with my legs.” Wait, that didn’t sound heroic enough. “One of those heavy, lockdown doors. Very nearly got crushed by the thing.” That sounded better.

C.T. snorted lightly. “So nothing serious then?”

“No, only serious enough to place me in considerable pain, my dear,” Wyoming scathingly replied.

“...But it was Florida’s fault?”

Ah. He saw it now. “I suppose, but to be fair on the lad I would have made the same mistake in his place.”

“Are you not mad at him then?”

Wyoming had to... Well, he just had to wonder when it came to his feelings for the other man now. He couldn’t even begin to think about it when his heart was numb and he was almost glad of the pain in his legs for giving him something else to feel. “Not for that incident, no. He got us both out all limbs intact. Couldn’t ask any more of the fellow.” Yes you could.

C.T. nodded. Then she sighed, turning over one hand in her lap thoughtfully, rubbing the palm with her other thumb.

Wyoming saw them sitting together often enough in the rec room, the two girls. Sometimes they even got some of the same comments he and Florida got, but with South’s temper only from the bravest souls. A lot of those comments got tossed around about any two Freelancers who interacted outside of missions regularly, but it seemed the ones of him and Florida were special; they never got paired with anyone else and appeared to be the group favourite. They were an established partnership. If Florida left now, it would be as bad as North Dakota being without his South.

 _“Bugger..._ ” Wyoming looked towards the doors of the treatment room. He also had a thought; “Why isn’t the girl’s brother here? Some other half he is...”

“North doesn’t need to be,” C.T. answered, sounding warmly amused. “He can just sense if she’s all right or not. You’ll see; he’ll be in here within two minutes of her coming out of treatment.”

Two minutes? Wyoming looked through the window across from him into the observation room for medical, seeing no one. “...What do you wager on it?”

“Hmm... Tell me if you and Florida are really going out?” C.T. looked back grinning.

Wyoming looked away. “No dice, my dear. You’ve got nothing I want anyway.” Frankly, he was too certain he’d lose that one, and now was definitely not the time he was going to talk about that.

Despite being mildly disappointed, C.T. quickly perked up when the doors into medical opened and North came in. Within twenty seconds, the doctors emerged telling them South was going to be fine.

C.T. and Wyoming wouldn’t have known which way to call that anyway.

He listened to South’s cussing and griping about being laid up for a couple of days resting whilst his own problems were seen to. The doctor told Wyoming his muscles were just strained and/or pulled in his legs and lower back; all he needed to do was go easy on them for a few days and take mild painkillers if need be. They gave him a dose now and wrote a note in the system that he was not to have any training involving strenuous leg work for a week.

Wyoming was dismissed, looking forward to a week of shooting practice and light exercise.

He returned to his room, shedding his armour to have a shower, get changed and just put his head in his hands over the whole thing with Butch.

Was he really going to leave?

It was highly doubtful anyone was going to be allowed to leave Project Freelancer. Even the cooks had signed on for the long haul. But if any agent could, it was going to be Florida; he was both the most expendable agent and the most capable of running and hiding from authorities. Running away from a ship flying in space would be pretty difficult even for him, but he could easily desert during the next mission.

When would the next mission be? Did he have time to fix this?

Reginald was pretty sure they had at least another week before any big missions; the Project only tended to be able to find something for them to do once every fortnight most of the time. Florida tended to be included on nearly all major missions due to his facilitating, back-up role.

Dash it all; it didn’t even matter. Butch would find a way if he wanted to.

15 minutes later, Reginald was still trying to work out at what moment precisely he put his foot in his mouth during this whole catastrophe when there was a knock on his door. It was now just over an hour since the end of the mission debriefing and approaching what the onboard clock said was 11pm.

When Reginald got to his feet and opened the door, out in the dimly lit corridor stood, “Butch...” He was still in his royal blue armour, sans the helmet, standing in a confident, formal manner. He nearly faded into the lack of lighting and it felt as if he had been too busy with something to remove his armour. “What-?”

Butch put a finger up to his own lips, signalling for silence. His thin lips were a smile though, a devious, enigmatic one. His hand then proffered a folded sheet of paper to Reginald who stared but did not take it for a moment, not until it was obvious Butch was going to say nothing further until he did.

It looked like a letter to Reginald. “Are you-?”

“I apologise for my handwriting and punctuation,” Butch interrupted softly. “I think you can guess why by now, Reginald.”

No! That couldn’t be the last time he heard Butch say his name. “Just what the bloody hell is this?” Reginald hissed fiercely. “Is this goodbye?” Are you leaving? Is that why you’re still in armour because you’re leaving _right now?!_

Butch continued his smile, “This is goodnight,” turned and left.

How many other times had he left with a smile?

Everyone he had brought so much light to, that he took such pains never to forget; did he leave all of them with a smile?

Why could he leave with a smile?

Reginald hadn’t even moved, hadn’t said anything and had somehow let Butch get out of sight. _The damn boy..._ He retreated into his room, resolving to read the letter. Even if he might be able to keep a part of Butch alive by not, by having that part of him still yet to experience, Reginald knew he had to read this.

If this was goodbye, then he wanted to say it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I doing this deliberately to crank up the tension and torture you, my beloved readers? The answer is yes! [Insert evil O'Malley laugh here]
> 
> But the next chapter is going to be the climax, yes. No hints as to which way it will go but I hope it's got you as excited as the current Red vs. Blue episodes now. (Okay, I'll stop flattering myself here.)  
> As always, thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments!
> 
> Next time... Well, that all depends on what Butch's letter says...


	10. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't want to spoil anything about this chapter but I feel I ought to warm for a small mention of sexual assault, just in case.  
> Also, you'll have to imagine the first part is written in nice but slightly messy handwriting for me as I can't get the font on here.

_‘Dear Reginald,_

_I have been a human being for a while now, and strikingly still am one. They’re funny things that have a habit of dying very easy, even when you like them very much. Yet we still go on like silly-billies and fall in love with them anyway._

_Why did you have to go and be so silly as to fall in love with pathetic little me? Now you’ll be sad when I die, and sad if I leave, and sad just if I’m sad. And there’s just nothing I can do about it because I always leave places and friends before I die on them, or burden them. But now I’ve gotten myself into a sticky little situation where I can’t do either because you’ve got some of my burden and it sounds like you’re not going to give it back._

_If you’ve been taking it just to wrap my strings around your fingers then shame on you, Reginald. But I think you’re just being scared. I’ll tell you a little tale now to explain it, so just hang on and try to think of this as my bedtime story for you._

_The worst experience I ever had was nearly starving to death. I don’t even like to think about it now. But I wound up on my dying day lying on the doorstep of this sweet old woman’s house, Cynthia. She came out to find me stealing the milk she had delivered to her house – I’m so ashamed – looked over the ragged, bony mess I was and asked if I’d like some tea to put that milk in – Cynthia was very good with tea, I think you would have liked her. She invited me in and fed me, not caring one bit or ever worrying about the awful things I might do, which I would like to add I wouldn’t. I fed her a complete lie of a backstory. She fed me a full meal. I gave her a false name. She gave me a place to stay. I eventually told her my real name. She told me she only had two months to live. I stayed with her until the end, getting back as much strength each day as she lost – I think she was giving it to me, you know, she was such a kind thing. And at the end, she told me to take anything in her house with me that I wanted, all her petty cash and any of her jewellery to sell. Her family were getting her house and money and once the awful little pups knew that, none of them came to care for her anymore! I’d have given them a seeing to, if they had ever come._

_Now, I hope you read all that carefully, here’s the moral: Cynthia was never afraid to help me for one second because she knew how soon she was dying. She knew she might as well give it all now because holding on to extra caring doesn’t help anybody, so I always try to give out all of my spare caring too, because we’re all dying really and my life has always been as endangered as all ours are now. That’s why I do my ‘scout-leader bit’ as you so sweetly termed it earlier, and why I try too gosh-darned hard to be an adult all the time because for some silly reason, people don’t want to rely on children, and I want people to rely on me. But then you had to come along and suddenly I find I’m relying on you, Reginald! I tell you, that’s some witchcraft you’re working._

_You come into my life and you don’t miss me, you don’t go anywhere, you lay your dignity aside for the sake of keeping me, your hand is always there when I start to unravel, when I do wrong to others you worry about what it does to me, and you take a step closer every time you find out what I really am._

_And you’re taking all my memories. I never thought I’d live to see the day but someone wants my memories and I want to give them._

_Maybe it’s because you’re not like my life. And I mean that literally, yes, you lucky, little rabbit you, but you’re also such a sturdy thing. There hasn’t been any stability in my life: Not the name I go by or the face staring back at me out of muddy puddles. But you always have a joke, you always use the word, ‘Bloody’ far too much – I’ll deal with that naughty mouth of yours one day – and you always have your very fine moustache. We’re like a rock tied to a balloon: You stop me floating up and freezing. I stop you lying on the ground and being rock-y. Um, I thought I had a more poetic point there._

_But anyway, if I can return to Cynthia for just the teensiest sec – Because I think I meant to write this, not all that. My, look at me being all balloony. Where’s my rock when I need him? – Helping someone else makes you just as vulnerable back to them. Cynthia wasn’t afraid of that, but I think you are, Reginald. I’d like you to know that there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help from time to time. Everybody does, even if I try not to. Don’t let yourself get hurt just because of that “I always get my man” pride of yours, as magnificent as it is._

_Now, I certainly don’t want to be telling you how you feel, that wouldn’t be right at all, but does that feel a little bit squirmy inside of you now, like I might just be right on your mark?_

_Well, I think I should only make this fair by telling you what I’m afraid of too. I’ll tell you now, I’m demisexual. I only start feeling something physical after I know someone very well. But I’ve lived in a way that’s meant I never had the time with anyone before for such a desire to build. I’ve never felt an attraction before for anyone (but yes, I knew that I could one day.) And then now there are all these new feelings inside of me whenever I think about you and they actually hurt quite a clucking bit._

_And they scare me. Quite a lot._

_That first time you held me, some truly terrible part of my mind I’m really very sorry for kept telling me that you were going to hurt me. I know it likely didn’t look like it, but I’m nothing if not a good actor and 9/10ths of me enjoyed that hug very, very much._

_All of me enjoyed the words you said that night though. I’ve always thought my existence is a very selfish thing, as I implied. After all, if I wasn’t even wanted at birth when I hadn’t even done anything yet then I really can’t be wanted at all. Perhaps there’s just some awful hereditary thing I have that’s yet to come out. But just in case, I had better do everything I can to make people want me around, by being nothing but helpful, cheerful and a burden to no one!_

_Yes, that’s why. Why I’m everything that I am. People never seem to want me wherever I go and try to hang my non-existent hat. Even whenever I’ve seemed wanted or liked, I know it’s only because I’ve made myself useful enough to tolerate. If I ever stop acting cheerful and supportive, cause any trouble, show my true feelings... Well, you’ve seen how they react._

_And just look! Even though I’ve worked so darned hard here to be nice and friendly with our so-called team, they always forget me. They never want to talk to me or work with me on missions if they can avoid it. They say I’m creepy, annoying and they call me a freak and a weirdo when they think I’m not listening – I hear them._

_But I also hear you defending me. And that’s something I’ve never heard before. You say an awful lot of things I’ve never heard before. Things that are the only reason why I’m still here, and the reason why I’ll be staying here with the one person that wants me._

_Therefore, you ought to be the first to ever know all that about me, Reginald. After all, you’ve already seen me helpless, sad and let me be a complete burden to you. I’m everything I never wanted to be with you, and you’re the only person who could ever make that all right._

_Reginald, you’re the only person who saves me from being all by my little, selfish self in the universe because, you know, I really, truly believe you’re the only other person who even wants me to be alive. Thank you._

_Now, before I forget, I really must apologise for raising my voice at you earlier. You see, I’ve lost an awful lot of sleep thinking about you and what to do lately and, like my past, I’m rather sensitive to all that suffering I’ve been through being ignored so when you out and out tell me somehow that you know I’m in love, it just got my little temper all flared. I really am sorry for that, Reginald._

_I think you’re very probably right, really. I asked for a romantic relationship earlier because that’s just about all the conclusion I’ve been able to reach so far. I’m very happy in your company. Your body seems to excite mine. I don’t want my life to ever be without you. When I looked at the recipe, it looked like I had all the ingredients._

_Yet, here I’m running out of words. I think I’ve worked it out now you’ve told me. Does it hurt because I have too much love inside me now and I’ve been an utter goose and not let it out in time? Is that why it has hurt more and more as time went on this past month and a half? It hurt a little less when we were talking earlier._

_Would you come answer these questions for me soon, Reginald?_

_Oh, look at me! Once again I’m relying on you. One of these days I’ll go back to getting myself out of problems._

_Toodle-oo now!_

_Butch Flowers_

_P.S. I love you, I agree. Forgot that part. Sorry!’_

Forget ‘soon’. Reginald was putting in the code for Butch’s door within two minutes.

* * *

Butch’s letter was sweet, it was funny and it was so... him.

And it wasn’t goodbye.

Reginald stepped into Butch’s room and immediately forgot what he came in for because a 15-year-old girl was sitting on Butch’s bed blow-drying their hair. The person drying their hair looked up as if sensing his presence and Reginald saw them startle.

It was Butch that startled. Butch had his hair down for the first time.

“Now, that isn’t very polite at this time of night, Reginald. I might not have been decent,” Butch chastised him lightly, running one hand through his long hair to feel for wet patches. He was decent though, dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt and baggy black shorts.

Reginald didn’t say anything, because Butch had his hair down for the first time.

Eventually the blonde noticed the effect he was having and swept all his hair back over his shoulders into a slightly more familiar style. It still hung loosely though, and should have been straight but the constant braiding had left kinky waves in the lower half reaching down to Butch’s shoulder blades. It wasn’t quite enough, but it finally helped Reginald find a bit of his tongue. “Er...” Very eloquent.

Butch snickered slightly, enjoying the flustered sight. “Well, let’s start this again for you. Did you want something, Reginald?”

Still staring, Reginald eventually managed to stare at the letter in his hand instead and remember there were other things in life besides how incredibly beautiful Butch was, things that were quite important right now. “I read your letter.”

“Thank you! I’m very pleased to hear that,” Butch grinned, apparently unable to take this seriously right now.

“And I... er...” He had already forgotten everything it said.

Although he didn’t know why, Butch could see his friend couldn’t find any words for this right now. His grin devolved into a small, tender smile; he still felt the guilt of having put Reginald in this position. He really was just awful at this whole thing. Maybe he shouldn’t even be trying. “...Forget about the immense heap of problems that I am for all this,” Butch began, picking awkwardly at one of the hems on his shorts; “What do you want, Reginald? With all my fussing and panicking, I don’t think you even got the chance to say, so let’s simply start on that.”

Ah good, a simple question.

He hoped.

Reginald walked forward and crouched down in front of Butch’s knees to meet his lowered gaze. The young man looked a little anxious but he tried to smile. “I just want to keep on being with you, Butch; as your best friend, and as your mission partner.”

“Nothing more?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to more, but I wouldn’t like to make you uncomfortable at all either.” Reginald placed a hand on Butch’s knee, illustrating the point as it shied away slightly for a second.

Butch tutted him. “I told you not to worry about me; I’ll have to give you zero points for listening, Agent Wyoming. And...” His fingertips traced lightly down three of Reginald’s fingers on his knee, stimulating a blush in the other man’s face with a softly flirtatious look, “as I wrote, I do think I’d like more as well...”

Rather than stammer yet again, Reginald swallowed it and just let himself enjoy the sensation for the first time without worrying about what path it was a step on. “Jolly good then...” He found himself speaking more softly than intended. “We’ll put that on the back burner for now, however, and work on the rest.”

“Oh shucks,” Butch smiled in self-deprecation; “that’s me again. It’s really not all that important-”

“Butch, I’m not leaving this room until I’m satisfied you’re bloody happy again,” Reginald firmly told him. “And furthermore I’m very disappointed in you, young man, for keeping all this trouble to yourself. You said you haven’t been sleeping right for a month and a half? Tsk tsk. I’d expect you to take much better care of your own health, my lad.”

...How dare he?

Butch was staring in shock.

That was _his_ thing, the silly, over-the-top dad act.

There just weren’t even words for this. Butch ignored the whole thing. “...So I could get you to stay here until morning, if I’d like that?” He concentrated on the other part instead.

“Certainly, although I’d have to insist you provide a bed,” Reginald’s eyes made a pointed show of lingering on the one Butch was sitting on, “and I’m afraid I only see one present.”

Butch looked down at the bed as well.

So this was really happening.

Reginald had said what he wanted, and it was time to give an answer. He’d spent just over 6 weeks trying already; earlier had proven how far Butch had gotten in that time too. He wanted to give what Reginald asked for.

But he also wanted to have no reservations. You didn’t come through all those years living like that without protecting yourself becoming the top priority. Yet, then it sounded like he feared Reginald was going to hurt him though, and that certainly wasn’t fair to the completely loving, reliable friend who had repeatedly done nothing but prove himself at every turn.

Butch felt just awful about himself for the things he said. “I’m still a plate of psychological spaghetti,” he half-jokingly warned. _‘Just a cheery little delaying tactic! ...Don’t make me do this.’_

Reginald chuckled. “I haven’t yet told you about my family past a few stories of my father, have I? Well, let’s just say you’d fit right in.”

That certainly surprised Butch considering Reginald’s apparent stability, but it also accounted for a great deal of their compatibility. “Well, I’d simply love to hear about them later,” _‘Or now, because if you really must know, I’m just a yellow chicken trying to be a canary here_ , _’_ “however, I think it’s about time you got up off that floor now, unless you’re planning to do something whilst down there.” Butch had meant proposing.

Reginald seemed to take it a lot more sexually. His cheeks flushed a light pink as he practically leapt to his feet, suddenly looming over the smaller, sitting man.

Butch rose more gracefully, _‘No, please, just one more hour? Just another minute!’_ beaming as if business were usual. “Well, this is going at least two hundred and twenty two times better than earlier! What next?”

He found himself pulled into a swift hug. It might have just been so Reginald could toy with the ends of his loose hair – Butch knew the rascal had been after it all conversation – but it sure was pleasant nonetheless.

“I thought you were going to leave...” Reginald’s voice had rarely been heard so choked and powerless.

“Oh shucks; I’m sorry I scared you with that. I was just saying it.” Butch didn’t want to dwell on why he was the type of person to say that to someone he loved.

Pulling back just a little, Reginald lightly touched at the corner of Butch’s smile. “Still terrified and hurting inside, dear thing?”

“Well, darn it, Reggie,” Butch clucked flippantly. _‘Yes!’_ “Won’t I even be able to hide _that_ from you now?” _‘YES!’_

Reginald cupped Butch’s face with both hands, sealing his lips over Butch’s for a tender, uncomplicated kiss.

He pulled back after with a small but highly smug smile peeking out beneath his moustache. “Better at all?”

 _‘Oh God...’_ Butch could barely get his lips to stop tingling long enough to speak. “A l-little,” he said. “But such significant, if delightful, steps in a relationship are always improved by the consent of both sides.”

How much the element of surprise had actually bothered him was evidently apparent from his sheepish, glowing smile. “Very well then,” Reginald humoured Butch’s attempt to regain a little of the superiority he usually had; “I’d very much like to kiss those smashing lips of yours, and any other bits of you I can get my hands on, all night long if you don’t mind awfully, Butch love.”

“Oh!” Butch swallowed visibly, his body trying to mutiny and flinch away until he gathered the bravery not to let this slip away again. “Well... sure!” He practically giggled, sliding one hand up to pull on the taller man’s neck for more kissing. His other hand stayed where it had landed, resting on Reginald’s chest, where the heel of his palm began to kneed one nipple it found beneath the shirt until it was stiff. It made Reginald nip at his bottom lip and very easy to pull down into his lap as Butch sat again on the edge of the bed. _‘Would you believe it? Of all the things, I forgot to pack my parachute and we’ve already jumped!’_

The long, urgent kissing was paused after a minute by Reginald to ask, “Sure you’re comfortable with this, dear thing?” He was trying to ignore it if Butch wanted to, but the symptoms he could feel in the other’s body were giving him second thoughts.

Butch knew his thoughts, the things he was doing, his physical reactions and the things he said were all becoming completely disentangled from each other. His entire act was unravelling in front of Reginald and that man was being kind enough to say nearly nothing about it. _This_ was what he meant about Reginald being the only person this was all right with. “Well now, aren’t you the sweetest for worrying?” he teased, continuing his tugging at the collar of Reginald’s top now he had discovered how good a neck was to graze his mouth along. “...I am still terrifically scared, yes,” he admitted quietly, summoning real courage, “but I’m not going to pay it any mind,” he tapped lightly on the other man’s breastbone, “the same way you seem to be ignoring this.” _‘And what a coincidence! You’ve forgotten yours as well!’_

“Ah.” Reginald hadn’t realised his pounding heart was so obvious. Then again, Butch had been doing delightful things to the pulse point in his neck while he’d been busy nipping at Butch’s ear. “Jolly good. Lead on then.” He worried it had been moving too fast, but really this had been building since the day they first met and they were too tired to stop and discuss it any longer.

_‘But perhaps we don’t need them now, any more than I need to find that answer._

_It looks like I packed it for this instead.’_

Things just happened.

Meeting just happened. Falling in love just happened. The worries and the thoughts and the questions just became a distant audience when their lips met again and again and again. Being hurt, being scared? Yes; only if this ever stopped.

Every fear of starting had become a fear of stopping. Butch found himself glad when his shirt was unbuttoned and then hands and lips were there, on his helpless skin. Someone was touching him, arousing him; they were changing what he felt as if they were inside his head.

But it was Reginald.

That meant he could trust, right?

Butch ran one hand up Reginald’s neck, cupping the side and rubbing his thumb in the soft flesh underneath. Reginald’s approving purr ran through his whole hand.

He could kill if not.

He kept kissing and tugging at that other shirt, wanting so much more whilst that one-tenth inside still checked. You learnt people when you did a lot of living, and Reginald had his danger certainly; it lay in his passion, the people and things he loved. He couldn’t stop or fail. He needed the things he wanted, be they his mission objective or... well, Butch knew how little choice he had actually had earlier when saying yes to this; he really did ‘always get his man.’ It was entirely right that Reginald wanted something possessive, and Butch hadn’t wanted to risk denying him that.

Oh well. Even if it was into danger, Butch couldn’t stop himself falling now. He didn’t even want to.

Reginald was going to treasure him; passion was devotion after all.

And devotion was a vulnerability Butch was pretty sure he could trust.

Eventually Reginald lost his shirt completely, somewhere around the time all of Butch’s little tugs on it became too much and he simply yanked the thing off over his head, flinging it away.

Butch had a very dignified laughing fit about all the manly passion bursting out of that single movement which got him pinned down on his bed. He let himself be laid out beneath his new, surprisingly romantic lover, smirking and giggling, content to make Reginald do most of the work. He adored the large hands appraising his thin waist, running up and down his sides. It looked like Reginald was considering the next step.

“By the way,” Butch suddenly said. Reginald’s gaze lifted from the very low place it had been lingering over, “I learnt everything I know about sex from female prostitutes; is that going to be a problem?”

“Hm. It’s either going to be a problem,” Reginald chuckled, leaning down to kiss from the soft skin of Butch’s stomach up towards his slightly too prominent ribs, “or a damn good bonus.” He hadn’t been too surprised by the few, small scars he kept finding all over the tan skin either.

Butch did try not to giggle as much as he currently was yet again, but he was thwarted every time by Reginald’s moustache tickling him with each kiss. Oh, he quickly grew to love the sensation certainly, but he just never desensitised to it. “That’s absolutely a possibility, but I just wanted to let you know in case I don’t measure up.”

Reginald lifted his head, black hair slightly tousled. “Measure up to what now?” he asked.

“Your previous partners.”

Ah. “I haven’t had any previous partners, Butch.” He returned straight to kissing, nuzzling up Butch’s sternum and trying to act like that was a perfectly acceptable fact to admit, in spite of every soldier, medic and even cook he’d met since basic training shoving their one-night-stands and flings in his face constantly.

“Wait now,” Butch pushed him back a bit; “what was that?”

Reginald sighed. “A proper English gentleman doesn’t dabble in casual sex or relationships.” That was what he had been raised to follow, and always consoled himself with. “And as for former boyfriends, I’m an arrogant so-and-so who’s never met anyone good enough, yet.” Well, that ought to do wonders for Butch’s oddly-shaped ego.

Butch’s eyes practically lit up. “So you’re a virgin?” He sounded so excited.

“I think that’s the bloody headline here, yes...” Could they just get back to the kissing already?

“Oh, you should have said! I’d have felt a lot less pressured.” Reginald blamed American culture for the assumption everyone had at least half a dozen notches in their belt by 25. “And now I feel just awful about sneaking into medical to check your blood tests too...” Butch tried to slip that by more quietly, but he was heard.

Reginald narrowed one eye, but he was willing to let that go as probably a joke.

“Well, well... And when you’re so handsome as well...” Butch seemed pleased at least. It was easier for them both, in ways. “My...”

“Finished, pet?” Reginald had grown bored and ran his tongue up Butch’s neck, stopping at the point under the end of his jaw. Good; his pulse was slightly raised from arousal but his terror had calmed somewhere along the way.

“Mm-hm...” Butch hummed playfully, running his nails down the other’s back until Reginald groaned from sharp pleasure. He came across much more at ease with all of this, past a little natural British shame over something so base. Reginald seemed very comfortable with his body and having it touched; he also seemed naturally intimate and romantic, very gentlemanly. It was a treat being played with and explored by him. He had his anxieties, but they seemed to be mainly out of concern for his less comfortable partner. Butch thought his partner couldn’t be more perfect.

Or maybe he could. “Say, could we lose these?” Butch was thumbing at the waistband of Reginald’s grey jeans.

“Of course. Any further?” He stood up to remove them without the dignity-killing struggle that would otherwise ensue on the bed.

“Not tonight.” Butch somehow managed to wriggle out of his own shorts without the use of his hands. Reginald looked forward to those flexible, little hips in the future, but for now-

Now...

“Now, Reggie darling, staring is rude,” Butch lightly scolded.

Reginald was staring not actually at the bulge in Butch’s boxers, but the boxers themselves. He had been fully prepared to dive straight back into the necking and heavy petting but there were squirrels chasing nuts all over Butch’s boxers, and a few hugging the nuts lovingly once they had caught them. “...You always have to be the special one, don’t you, mate?”

Looking as well, Butch realised it was the pattern and not contents of his boxers attracting attention. “Why be boring when you can be special?”

Wryly shaking his head, Reginald settled onto the bed again, welcoming Butch, daft boxers and all, into his lap this time. He let Butch take control for a while but was surprised at how quickly things descended into unsophisticated rutting. They had both been erect on and off during the time they had been going for – Good Lord, was it really already over an hour? – but now Reginald had his forehead pressed to gorgeous, caramel skin and no awareness of anything outside of the desperate pleasure of their hips rocking together.

Butch eventually apologised for getting carried away with the sensation, which he really didn’t need to, but they moved back to other things.

They kept finding things they wanted to do and to appreciate with each. Reginald only finally noticed the time again a second time when Butch was sitting between his legs facing away. He had been nuzzling into and just stroking Butch’s long, dirty-blonde hair, enjoying how silky it was when he noticed it was already 2:17am. “Ah, Butch love...” Their voices were sleepy, even if their bodies weren’t. “It’s getting late.”

“I know, but I’m simply feeling too fizzy inside to sleep.” Butch was stroking his fingertips up the insides of Reginald’s thighs to the ends of his tight, black boxers, with complete disappointment they weren’t covered in little moustaches.

Reginald hummed in agreement. He knew precisely the sensation, like the only thing he could feel any longer was the pure, liquid excitement filling all his veins now that he was here, he was with Butch, they were actually together and going to be together doing together things from now on. It was the feeling of something not being the ideal way you wanted it to be because you learn things can actually be even better than the supposed ‘perfect’ that you could imagine. “It’s like magic...” he softly said.

“Or lemonade.”

For no matter how long, Reginald didn’t think he was going to get tired of that sense of humour either. Everything Butch would say was an utter mystery until it left his lips. Lips that, right now, he pulled backwards into a kiss over Butch’s shoulder, hugging the smaller body tightly from behind.

The rest of the night, which was really a morning, pleasantly blurred.

They kept their energy up sharing the skittles Reginald had been promised during the mission earlier.

It was years late, but they both finally got to understand the joy of being a teenager at a sleepover, trading guesses and jokes about the other agents and returning to the silly questions they asked one another over card games after weeks of it being too awkward.

Reginald learnt Butch had kept a chicken called Nuggets as a pet for two years whilst living in various places, sometimes relying on selling or eating the eggs to get by. Butch found out Reginald had a Masters degree in 19th-22nd Century Media, specialising in Literature, and family assets in the hundreds of thousands.

And Butch at long last asked for, and was granted, permission to touch the moustache. It squirmed slightly away from his first few touches since it had a proud but sensitive temperament, but then it started to enjoy the stroking, although not nearly as much as Butch was enjoying the sheer honour.

By the end of their night, they were lying half-slumbering together under Butch’s covers, his head resting in the dip of Reginald’s shoulder whilst curled along the side of his body. They had never taken their underwear off, nor made much contact down there. Reginald felt a traditional duty to take things slow and savour them. Butch just seemed uncomfortable.

“If you ever want to say something, I’ll always listen, love,” Reginald murmured, holding on a little tighter. Agent Florida was so always brilliant wherever he was, whatever he was doing, but it nearly broke Reginald’s heart every time he thought about how much Butch had to hide and deal with inside every single day to make that happen. And he hated every other person Butch had ever met that hadn’t appreciated how selfless and endlessly supportive he was, his strange but delightful speech patterns and sense of humour, and every single incredible thing Butch made the effort to do for everyone around him every single day.

“That’s one of the kindest offers I’ve ever heard. Thank you, Reginald,” Butch said. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that at some point.”

Reginald really hoped he did. For all he had read and heard tonight, he had the feeling there was still a lot more going on he was yet to learn. “And, er, you’re comfortable with what we did tonight? Not too much or anything?” Once they had established the rule that Butch was to be asked for permission before he was touched in any sexual way, things had become a lot more comfortable for him. Kisses, hugs and other forms of touching were free. He just had strong boundaries around the few things that he could call his, the most important of which being himself.

“It was just perfect.” There was one particular thing Butch just couldn’t get over, when Reginald had held him from behind in front of the mirror in the bathroom and called him, “drop dead gorgeous” in his beautiful British way, because Butch knew they were both looking at the same person in that moment, and Reginald had still called him that. “And if it wasn’t for all our clucking training today, I’d want to stay here for even more.”

“I’d certainly second that. Surprised you want to move on so quickly though.”

“Reginald, I’m demisexual,” Butch reminded him with a light scolding; “that means I’m _very_ capable of being _very_ into you right now.”

“I meant because you seemed so dashed uncomfortable about the whole thing when we started,” Reginald clarified.

“Oh, that,” he flippantly corrected himself, sighing very gently over Reginald’s chest. “I suppose you ought to know, although I really don’t like to bring up such a nasty, little thing on such a happy night. You see, I’ve just been slightly skittish about sex ever since someone tried to sexually assault me a few years back now. That’s all.”

That was all? “You really have to stop tossing bombshells about so casually, mate,” Reginald said, running his fingers through Butch’s hair again. The boy was too used to bad things happening to him. “No wonder you were so nervous about the thing. You should have said something earlier, you poor twit.” But it certainly explained why he liked to be asked for permission first.

Butch shook his head, still smiling with his eyes contentedly closed. “Oh, it’s fine, Reginald, you big worrywart, you! I ended up turning it into a happy memory after I spent two months tracking and then exacting the perfect revenge murder on him. Now I know he can’t harm anyone else and it put my feelings completely to rest on the matter.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

Lazy, indigo eyes opened, taking in Reginald’s severe frown. “Whyever not? It was very cathartic.”

“I don’t doubt it was.” And so Butch didn’t just kill for sheer survival either. “But no matter what you say, when you react like that to things, I don’t believe for one blasted second you just ‘get over’ them, Butch.”

Butch shrugged, settling again. “We all have our ways, Reginald...” he said with a quiet darkness.

“Yes... Remind me never to cheat on you...” Reginald muttered, half in jest.

“Now, you don’t need worry about that, darling.” Butch snuggled in tighter, squeezing the one arm he had wrapped over Reginald’s chest tighter. “If you ever cheat on me with someone else, I’ll cut off every bit of their skin that touched yours and stick it back onto you to keep you all mine,” Butch kissed the skin above the right side of Reginald’s heart, “because I love you.”

“Bloody hell...” This relationship felt like a Faustian pact sometimes...

“As asked, I think that’ll remind you for life now,” Butch said proudly. He was very happy with the arrangement.

Reginald was too, however twisted it was by their natures and circumstances. But perverse twists entangling them in the other would certainly keep them together and, as Butch’s letter had convinced him, the more dangerous the situation, the less reason there was to hold back on expressing their love; better now than never. At least he’d solved that much about Butch’s character.

And at least they had finally reached the end of the night.

Their dawn was now coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, got you! Happy ending! (Well, for now at least)  
> I think Butch's letter at the start of this is the most enjoyable part I've written for this whole story, including all the chapters I have written yet to be released. Getting that deep inside his character was very difficult but then so incredible.  
> Optional homework of the week: Try writing something as one RvB character to another, any that you like, if the idea appeals. It could be a letter like this, or as small as a post-it. If you do, leave a note in the comments below; I'd love to see it.
> 
> Well, first big milestone of the story reached, everyone. I'd especially appreciate reviews on everything so far this week, if you've got the time; characterisation, structure, writing style or whatever. We're about a third of the way through now, as a rough approximation. There's still plenty to come!  
> And if anyone ever wanted to spend a little time picking apart my work and helping me improve it, there are no words for how grateful I would be and I would definitely try to do something small in return for you. But no pressure on anybody; it's just if you want to get involved and the offer stands for every chapter after this.
> 
> Next time, the next two chapters are mainly fluff, humour and some action/drama as our new couple begins on life together.


	11. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up to Explicit now for the first explicit bit of sex. There will be bits and pieces from now on, but only when the story requires it; no gratuitous smut. This thing's long enough as it is...  
> If any of my regular readers - It looks like I have maybe 30 from the hit counter. I really can't tempt any more of you into saying hello? - Anyway, if anyone reading has any specific triggers they want me to warn for at the start of chapters, just leave a comment. Otherwise I'll only warn for the most general things and my own trigger. (Awkward thing to do now after this week's PSA...)
> 
> I'm not so certain about the second half of this chapter, as ever when I bring OCs into a fanfic even briefly, but I felt it was about time Wyoming got some backstory. Hopefully it'll give you a few laughs. They will only be occasionally mentioned after this.

No one noticed anything the next morning at breakfast. Wyoming and Florida were in the habit of turning up together anyway and always had been. They always sat beside each other at their corner of the Freelancer table, if they weren’t sat alone together in their corner of the mess hall. Either one of them might join in with a conversation, or speak for them both as a team, or they might spend the entire time talking amongst themselves even in company.

That morning Florida gave a cheerful little rallying check-up to the team after last night’s mission whilst Wyoming and North were having a mild argument over pancakes due the American or ‘Scotch’ kind, as the Brit knew them, which had been served today.

No one noticed anything during the day. With Wyoming’s less strenuous training regime due to his legs, his tiredness wasn’t apparent. Florida even managed to sneak a 20 minute nap during his training where the mission was to remain undetected while some of the foot soldiers in the Project tried to hunt him down. All he needed to do was find a perfect little hiding spot and employ his ability to sleep standing with his eyes open for short naps – When Reginald would later discover this skill, he remained thoroughly convinced to his dying day it was all just a joke and entirely impossible to boot.

No one noticed in the evening either, mainly because the new couple were not there to notice. They were back in Butch’s room, making out and shedding clothes to fall into bed together whilst York was trying to work out how he could get a game of Twister going in the rec room without Maine squashing everyone when he played.

No one noticed anything for over 3 weeks.

Florida and Wyoming acted just like ever during the days, training and missions. Even by themselves, very little had changed except for the increase in emotional and particularly physical intimacy after all. As ever, they were best friends, ideally suited partners and infuriating jokers. They spent all their possible time together and never once had anything worse than a withering retort to say to the other. It was little wonder transitioning to a romantic relationship had been so easy for them, and even easier to hide.

Half of the evenings they weren’t busy on official matters they still spent in the rec room with whoever else was there, just for appearances sometimes. They always left together though, often a little early, but no one thought anything of it. Even when Carolina saw them both exiting Wyoming’s room at the same time one morning, she thought nothing of it when they too were completely nonchalant about it. They hung out in the evenings together, and met up in the mornings; everyone knew that.

No one knew they spent the nights together too.

No one knew how things had progressed, how things had moved from simple kissing and roving hands through Butch dry-humping Reginald whilst experimenting with this fun ability to leave hickeys that human mouths had, to Reginald trailing his tongue slowly down Butch’s spine, through the thin, hot sheen of sweat he’d produced working two fingers in and out of Butch’s arse whilst his ears drank every whimper to let him come now, _please! Oh God! Please let me come!_

No one heard the noises because they tended to prefer Butch’s room, more isolated as it was. Still like rabbits in Spring at this stage, they were at it for at least an hour, sometimes two, every night – Okay, so perhaps their increased stamina was noticed during training, but no one ever realised its origin. Butch’s languid, whimsical approach to sex, anywhere from sweet and innocent to torturous sadist on any given night, provided the perfect, complementary flexibility to Reginald’s fierce, relentless passion.

No one saw the scratch marks down Reginald’s back – Kitten or lion, Butch always ended up like some sort of cat in bed – the pinkness of Butch’s bottom when he’d been spanked or the bite marks on either, which they were always careful enough to leave low on one another’s necks.

Every night they spent curled up in a single bunk together, and every morning Butch would enjoy tweaking the ends of that magnificent moustache after Reginald had groomed it. Then Reginald would sit to watch how Butch braided his hair, and listen to the special melody he always hummed whilst doing so. He quickly learnt both.

They rather enjoyed no one knowing, the lack of intrusion and pressure, but mainly the delight that came every time they were still teased about it, only to know how true, and more, those joking words were.

And it happened one innocuous lunchtime. Everyone was laughing about the pictures of C.T. someone – probably beginning with ‘N’ and ending in ‘orth’ – had stuck all over the inside of South’s locker when, “Holy crap. They’re actually doing it.”

All eyes followed Carolina’s mirthfully surprised voice.

Except Wyoming and Florida who were the destination. “Sorry? Whatever do you mean, my dear?” Wyoming responded unknowingly.

Carolina looked too smug to accept that. “Florida’s eating that popsicle like it’s a... well.” Florida removed the banana popsicle from his lips with a last lick for the drips, looking innocently surprised about the allegation. “And you’re eye-fucking him out the corner of your eyes,” she added to Wyoming.

“I believe you’ll find I’m doing no such thing,” he retorted indignantly.

“Oh yeah?” she chuckled. “Then lift your right hand – _Without_ moving it horizontally.”

...Oh bugger. The game was up.

Wyoming sighed and lifted his right hand, which had been casually resting under the table supposedly on his own lap, but now appeared hovering above Butch’s thigh where it had been caressing him down the inside of his armour plates. He tried not to look ashamed, just mildly exasperated while Butch wore a coy, guilty smile and went back to licking his ice cream.

“So, you’re actually, like, really...?!” C.T. looked so excited. All her months of pestering jokes seemed to have finally paid off.

The couple looked to each other and Butch shrugged gently, letting Wyoming do the talking whilst he finished eating. “Oh all right. Yes, we are.” Just admitting it actually made him smile.

“Holy shit. Like, all the way?” South wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to ask that but the immense curiosity around the table got the better of her.

“Ah, yes.” Wyoming didn’t see the need to say much more. It was completely apparent now his hand had settled on Florida’s thigh again, squeezing for support as all the other agents goggled at them.

“Okay, this is really crucial,” York stopped the table, silencing all other questions. “How long has this been going on for, because obviously joking about something for long enough makes it happen.”

“24 days,” Florida answered, because he’d been ecstatically counting every one.

York quickly calculated when that was back to. “Okay, everyone needs to start making jokes about me for the next 5 and a half months.”

“And Wash?” Maine growled rather accusingly.

“Whoa there!” York calmed him. “You sound kind of jealous there, big guy.”

Maine looked extremely affronted, and perhaps a little embarrassed. Wash actually choked on his food, then blushed very brightly after Maine lightly thumped his back to make him better.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” C.T. appealed.

“Because we failed to see how it was any of your business, my dear,” Wyoming replied. They had been rather glad of conducting their honeymoon period in privacy.

“Oh, it totally is,” Carolina insisted. “This will keep team morale up for a month.” And she knew Florida couldn’t resist that argument.

Sure enough, “Well, we’d be glad to tell you every last detail about it now,” Florida agreed, but to the point where it was creepy enough to dissuade all further interest that meal. It had been near the end anyway and they all had to get back to training.

After carrying their trays over to the pile, Wyoming glanced around the mess hall, noting that every other group had noticed something had happened amongst the Freelancers but were still watching to work out precisely what. Looking at his lover, he took the smaller, gloved hand in his for the short walk to the entrance and exit of the room. Now people were definitely craning their necks to see.

Florida looked slightly surprised but greatly pleased, and then curious when they halted at the doorway. “See you later, love,” Wyoming was looking down at him with a loving smile that reached up into his eyes. He then leant in to kiss Florida, just for a simple second.

There was a sudden gawking silence in which you could hear the three forks and a spoon that were dropped.

Wyoming pulled back, feeling nothing but pride for being able to show everyone now.

Butch was smiling a small but deeply intense smile. His delight was more gentle, that he finally had a home not just on this ship, but in someone’s heart as well. “Toodle-pip.” And just maybe he was starting to pick up the local dialect whilst there.

They headed off together, soon parting for different directions, ignoring the awkwardly loud cry of, “...Son of a bitch! Everyone did just see that too, right?” “Yes, Harris. We do all have eyes,” “Well, _sorry_ , Mosley! I thought maybe you had them closed, _like usual!_ ” from behind them in the mess hall.

The news was everywhere around the ship within an hour, given the actual Freelancer agents were like celebrities onboard the isolated vessel. Wyoming really got tired of all the congratulations and grinning thumbs-up that afternoon, and even the Counsellor gave him a strange, analytical look in the dinner queue before graciously smiling and looking away to someone else. It was made somewhat awkward by Florida not joining the rest of the agents for dinner but invariably the childish group kept him busy anyway with plenty of personal questions and celebratory plans before getting back to bickering about their own nascent, variable romances.

Wyoming didn’t see his partner again until much later in the evening when Florida finally appeared in the rec room, mouth wrapped around a gingerbreadhuman for support and shuffling his feet slightly. They were well-known signs.

“Leg day?” Wyoming asked with mild amusement as he held his datapad aside, letting his tired, little lover drop unceremoniously into his lap.

Florida nodded, mumbling unintelligibly around the small ginger-person’s head. He looked weary but not defeated.

“Want a rub, pet?” Wyoming asked, beginning to press and massage his fingers down the tops of Florida’s thighs without even needing to wait for an answer.

Florida sank even more comfortably into his space between the other’s legs, offering one foot of his gingerbread backwards in gratitude.

An empty game case came flying and hit Wyoming in the knee just as he bit through the same point on the little biscuit person. “Okay, as happy as we all are that you two have _finally_ admitted your massive crushes on each other,” Carolina began, not even looking away from her virtual Grifball match with South, “PDA rules: Anything more than light kissing or hugging in the presence of us girls **will** result in something being thrown at you. You’ve got two rooms’ worth of privacy for that. Understand?”

“Understood!” Florida agreed too eagerly to ever be a good sign.

“What about us boys?” North asked from where the four were playing cards hunched around the coffee table.

“I don’t care about you guys,” Carolina snorted carelessly. “Frankly, I’d like for them to creep you all out as- Ha! Goal! How d’you like that?!”

“Fuck you!”

“Around the boys, seriously, go as nuts as you want. That’s their problem,” their oh-so-magnanimous team leader summed up.

Some of the boys grumbled but they didn’t actually make any serious objections of their own.

The couple simply curled up tighter, Wyoming going back to reading his articles from home whilst Florida ate and then rested. Once finished, the taller agent simply picked him up bridal style, carrying him out and back towards their room for a proper massage. Even every bewildered or smirking look they passed made finally being out completely worth it.

* * *

Within two days, absolutely every last person on the ship knew, including the non-person FILSS who almost seemed just the tiniest bit sulky every time Wyoming tried to talk to her for some utterly unimaginable reason. The Director never made any acknowledgement but the Counsellor had professionally mentioned in passing that it was not an issue so long as there was no observable negative impact upon performance.

With everyone on the ship in the know, there were just two people left to tell.

Reginald had, for the most part, continued to mention his family as little as possible out of respect for Butch’s childhood. Once they were lovers though, Butch insisted he no longer do any such thing and took him up on the offer of being told all about them. Reginald spent one evening trying to explain the basics before it had somehow tangented off and ended up in kinky sex that made them completely forget what the intended topic had even been.

Butch did eventually learn this much: Reginald had grown up with his father and his father’s valet. He had no real mother, being born from a paid surrogate, but said he had been raised wonderfully nonetheless. He described his father as scatter-brained, impractical with a classic artist’s sensitivity and childishness. His father had often felt more like a brother than a parent but he was also a very successful artist and essayist, something that made their household very well off. The creative predisposition and intelligence apparently ran through their entire family bloodline, however Reginald glossed over whether it had continued into him.  
As for his father’s valet, Linch, somehow Reginald had grown up to be more like him despite not being biologically related. Linch managed everything, in both senses of the word, masterfully to the degree Reginald imagined he could give Butch a good run for his money when it came to his special, jack-of-all-trades role in Freelancer. As much as his father had been a very doting, keen parent, whenever he dropped the ball Linch had always been there to pick it up and shape Reginald into the self-reliant, proper – if facetious and cavalier – gentleman he was today.  
It was really not what Butch had expected, especially that the two were also in a romantic relationship despite being employer and employee. But between a loving, playful and incompetent father he had to be the responsible one for half the time, and an old-fashioned, sardonic but utterly devoted valet who could get any job done, he could begin to see the home that had made Reginald what he was today.

And now he was absolutely delighted that he was going to be introduced to them.

“I’m simply sorry that I don’t have parents to return the favour with,” Butch said, sitting on the edge of Reginald’s desk with excitement as his partner set up the connection on his datapad.

“Never mind that, mate...” Reginald murmured, frowning at the fussy technology he was trying to get clearance with. The Project didn’t cut them off but it did like to regulate everyone’s communications outside the ship. “I’m sure this’ll be enough entertainment for the both of us.”

“Entertainment?” Butch had gotten the sense Reginald’s household had been a very fun environment to grow up in, especially since it had given him his infallible sense of humour.

When asked though, Reginald just sighed as if this was going to be as mortifying as going on stage to do give a lecture about elephant enemas naked.

He eventually sat back, signalling he had finally set up the call and now was just waiting for a response. Butch watched from the side, able to see the propped up video screen whilst remaining mostly out-of-shot until he was introduced.

In a minute or so, someone picked up. Butch saw a man with short, greying-blonde hair wearing a smart, buttoned shirt backdropped by a rather impressive but well-lit room, luxurious without being ostentatious. He was willing to bet this was Linch. The man looked uncertain for a moment then reassured when the video must have settled. It appeared to be morning there, although it was ‘evening’ now on the Mother of Invention. “Ah, Master Reginald.” Butch tried not to snigger as he quickly became enthralled watching this alien world to him. “It _is_ good to see you again.” He had a dignified, British voice just like Reginald’s.

“Hello Linch.” Reginald somehow sounded both comfortable and awkward at the same time. “Is my father...?”

Linch sighed, pushing at his rolled-up sleeves and giving his head a sorry shake. “I reminded him at breakfast you were going to be calling and not to get caught up in anything so, of course, what happens?” he asked in a weary, rhetorical tone. “ **Ferdinand!** ”

Butch actually startled off the desk. Good God! No wonder Reginald had been a well-behaved child; even the Director would have been quivering.

He thought he could then hear a slightly audible bump, which must have been quite loud in actuality to have been picked up. Linch looked impatiently off towards the ceiling after his fearsome bark before looking back to Reginald. He seemed to notice Butch at the side of the screen. “Master Reginald, there appears to be...”

Reginald’s response to the shout had simply been to cover his face with a casual sigh, signalling this was par for the course. He lowered his hand now. “Ah, yes. When...” He gestured towards their side.

“Ah.” Linch gave a small, knowing smile and waited as well. Apparently Reginald had simply sent ahead a message that he had news for them and it was about time he called again anyway.

In another half a minute, a second man appeared. He had Reginald’s height and face, with a few wrinkles instead of a moustache, but wavy brown hair down to his neck, greying at the temples, and a sheepishly apologetic smile as he slipped into view being frowned at by his valet. “I was coming...” he weakly tried to defend.

“When? Next month?” Linch witheringly replied.

“...Eventually?”

Butch was absolutely loving this. If he was going to join any family, he wanted it to be this one.

His father’s attention was directed to the screen and he brightened considerably. “Oh! What ho, Reggie!” His father grinned blithely and waved.

“Hello father...” It looked like Reginald’s embarrassment was complete already. There was a lot of love there really, Butch could see. “What have you been up to today then, eh?”

“Oh, just writing, you know.” They both took a seat on the other end, Reginald’s father going on more calmly whilst rubbing at an inky smear on one of his fingers. “I’ve been nose-deep in old translations of blasted Foucault all morning writing up biopower this and that in regard to preferential colony treatment. The powers that be won’t be happy at all about it, but I’d take that to mean I’m on to something.” Was that the sort of thing Reginald understood? He certainly didn’t ask for any clarification. “But how are you doing now, hey?” His father turned frivolous again. “Been shot much?”

“Sir,” Linch chastised him firmly for even teasing about that.

“No, not been shot,” Reginald confirmed; “I’ve only done the shooting.”

“That’s a much better way round.” His father looked somewhat relieved, then wistful. “Oh Reggie, if only you were still satisfied making bows and arrows out of branches in the back garden...”

Reginald pulled a face, his upper lip going taut beneath his moustache, whilst Butch bit his lip to stifle himself. “Father, I haven’t done that since I was 9,” he said dryly.

“12,” Linch corrected, to the young master’s displeasure.

“Well, I wish you were still 12 then,” his father declared, slightly pouting. “At least you were still home then so we didn’t have to worry about you every bloody day...”

“ _You_ worry about him, Sir,” Linch said; “ _I_ raised him to look after himself.”

Despite looking put out, Reginald’s father retorted, “I see you rereading the messages from him late at night while you can’t sleep; don’t lie.”

As the small argument continued for a few more lines, their son simply massaged his forehead with his finger and thumb, ashamed but also comforted. So that was what a true family was like, Butch finally learnt; no matter what tone you took with each other, it showed that you loved them just as much as any nice one.

“You said that you had news, Master Reginald,” Linch suddenly cut short the bickering, leaving Reginald’s father dissatisfied without a conclusion.

“Ah, right...” He had rehearsed in his mind, but Reginald still hadn’t thought of a dignified way to announce this.

“Did it work?” His father asked first, sitting up eagerly. “My advice?”

And there was that too. “No, it bloody well didn’t! It just made everything very awkward for a couple of days.”

“Ah... Yes, the same happened when I did it,” his father replied with a happy ‘Oh well’ shrug.

Linch frowned at his partner. “Yes... But I assume, as usual, you managed in spite of your father, Reggie; I taught you never to listen to his advice on important matters.”

“I’ve had a new reminder...” The ganging up on the supposed master of the house just seemed to be another way their family showed its love. “I, er... hm.” Reginald struggled and ended up just beckoning Butch to step properly into sight. “This is Butch, my new boyfriend and all that...” The lack of fanfare was distinct.

“Well, howdy! Butch Flowers, pleased as punch to meet you!” Butch said, suddenly feeling very American for the first time in his life.

Reginald wasn’t even able to look at his family’s reactions but Butch could see his father looked very excited whilst he had to tolerate a very critical appraisal from Linch. “Oh Reggie! You finally found someone!”

“There’s no need to say ‘finally’ like that, all right?” Reginald huffed. “I simply have high standards...”

Butch was still wondering what the verdict of his other assessment was. Eventually Linch just said rather haughtily, “I see American naming standards have declined even further since I last checked.”

“Oh, Ed, don’t be mean!” Reginald’s father admonished with a light cuff.

“I apologise, Mr. Flowers; it was obviously beyond your control,” Linch said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Actually, I picked that name for myself when I 6!” Butch announced, taking a seat on the arm of Reginald’s chair. He was highly amused right now because he could count the times he had been addressed with any formal title on one hand and it was always such a laugh when anyone thought he deserved that level of respect.

Linch looked utterly scandalised. “And you thought _that_ would be an appropriate appellation?”

Reginald chuckled to himself. He had thought that since the first introduction, like many, but once they learnt Butch had picked it for himself, no one dared to ask. Somehow he had known that wouldn’t stop Linch from being the first, however.

Butch looked to his partner with amusement. “What does that mean? Something appalling?”

“A name.”

“Really? Well, well; what big, fancy words you have in England!” Butch laughed. “I just wanted something like me; part masculine, part feminine.”

“Like your appearance, I take it?” Linch retorted next with a small smirk.

He had Butch laughing again. Father and son just looked relieved he was taking this all so well as jokes.

They began by asking if he was a Freelancer as well, then if he had grown up in Florida in that case. They spent most of the remaining 30 minutes or so that was meant to be the maximum call time getting to know Butch while he picked up bits and pieces about Reginald’s home life too. Linch continued his light-hearted mockery of many aspects of Butch’s life, something that seemed to bond them very quickly, whilst Reginald’s father started to fawn over him, expressing multiple times how much he would have liked to raise Butch as well. He also wished they were able to come home and visit England; after 20 minutes of acquaintance Reginald’s father already had four ideas for pictures he wanted Butch to model for. “Well, it’s our blood and all that!” he explained cheerfully. “Of course Reggie would pick an aesthetically inspiring muse for a partner.”

Both Reginald and Linch looked at him disapprovingly, the latter coughing in discreet reminder.

His father stared blankly before starting. “Oh, Lord no! Not like that!” Butch just laughed about it, considering the man looked like he was in his mid-50s.”I just meant-! Oh dear... I ought to learn to clip my toenails with my teeth considering the amount I keep shoving my foot into my mouth...” He actually curled up in shame.

Linch actually displayed a rare moment of pity, comforting him. “I believe I understand your father’s point, Reggie. I take it Master Butch has become your muse?” No matter what, he wouldn’t stop using a title for Butch, mainly due to the discomfort it caused the addressed party.

“Muse?” Butch had vague notions about the needs of artists. “Am I, Reggie? Whatever for?” There were some of his father’s paintings amongst the photos in his frame but he hadn’t ever seen other artwork around Reginald’s room.

“Well, erm, yes, I suppose...” Reginald began to shift uncomfortably, wondering how easy it would be to dive for the ‘disconnect’ button.

His family looked slightly perplexed. “Master Reginald hasn’t let you read his plays and novels?”

“Novels and plays?” Reginald groaned and sank slightly in his seat, face covered. Finally, Butch realised. “Is _that_ what you’re always writing? Oh, you silly dingbat; why haven’t you let me read any?”

Reginald protested they were awful. His family objected quite the opposite. And if the son really was as good as his father seemed, from what Butch had observed, then apparently this secret shame of Agent Wyoming’s was for no reason at all.

Although Reginald wanted to disconnect the call as soon as possible, citing the time they were reaching, Butch found the chance to bring up his one lingering concern over the whole thing. “Well, what do you think? Am I good enough for him?” he indicated Reginald and asked to his family.

No one understood.

“You’re very nice, but when I’m little more than a rather unwanted street urchin, I wouldn’t like to come along and lay waste to Reginald’s good name and status.” He smiled a little harder. “I’d understand if you wanted to keep me in the basement-”

“Butch,” Reginald’s father interrupted firmly, “you were good enough the moment that Reginald fell in love with you.”

“You were actually worried about that, love?” Reginald asked, looking up with concern.

Butch shrugged as flippantly as he could, fiddling with the end of his braid. “We’re rather ‘Lady and the Tramp’ you must admit, as sweet as that old cliché is.”

Reginald stood, shaking his head and holding Butch’s cheek to kiss him. “No,” he assured him. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” Butch smiled shyly, then very brightly again. “Well, I sure am looking forward to being your catamite then, Reginald!”

The outburst of laughter from Reginald’s family almost drowned out Reginald’s complaints that Butch left school at 7; he had no right nor reason to know words like that!

It should be noted, he never said Butch wasn’t going to be though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who would need to otherwise go look it up, a catamite is a young, attractive boy kept by an older man for sex.
> 
> Next time, something very long, a bit different and we finally catch up to where season 9 begins.


	12. Selfies of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter really is nearly 14,000 words. It's probably going to be the longest chapter of this whole story but due to the slightly unusual structure, this chapter is pretty friendly for reading over a couple of sittings since it's mainly just a collection of drabbles in the middle.
> 
> We're finally catching up to where season 9 begins this chapter. Actually, we're covering all of season 9 and half of season 10 here. Yeah... Anyway, I spent a lot of effort trying to keep it entirely consistent with what we see in the episodes but if anyone spots any mistakes, just say and I'll maybe correct it, or probably just make up an excuse.

Soon Butch discovered one of the very few downsides to his relationship with Reginald.

Wyoming had walked over to the Freelancer’s table thinking that blonde head pillowed on their arms looked like his dear boyfriend, but Florida would never be doing that. Yet it really turned out that it was him. “Butch? Are you all right down there?” he paused by the table with his tray to ask.

Florida’s head rose and he was actually scowling just the tiniest bit. “You. This is _your_ fault.”

“Me?! Just what have I done? Started the bloody apocalypse?”

Sulking slightly, Florida picked up a fork to begin eating but not before gesturing it briefly at Wyoming. “Now that we’re public about our absolutely wonderful relationship, it’s become much harder for me to flirt extra sweet things out of the mess hall staff. They all keep threatening to tell you.” Not that that apparently stopped him, going by the large slice of cherry pie sitting on his tray.

“Good Lord... Is that all? Budge up now.” Wyoming sat down, unimpressed. It wasn’t as if Florida was a sugar-junkie who needed a daily fix – Even if he went without it for days, there was no perceptible change at all – but he still deemed it a cruel and unusual punishment for anyone to be deprived of life’s sweets. Or, at least, that’s what he had said when Wyoming eventually tried to hold an intervention on the amount of sugar he ate. When Florida turned up the next evening with white chocolate and marshmallow brownies for everyone, his boyfriend had been persuaded to drop it. “You’ve still got that whole stack in your room that you’ve wrangled off our dear pilot’s smuggling trips.”

“Yes, but half of those are destined to be presents,” Florida said, fussing over a stain on Wyoming’s white armour with a napkin. He barely had a pound of fat on him, perfectly fine teeth and medicine now had a cure for diabetes; there was nothing he needed to worry about. “Are we still moving your things into my room later?”

“Absolutely, dear thing.”

By the end of the evening, the last of Reginald’s personal effects was moved and his bookcase now stood beside Butch’s desk. Butch had increasingly wanted stories read to him at night, because of Reginald’s sexy voice and expertise on them, so this was the final piece to make that much easier.

This particular night though, Butch wanted something else.

He came back to where Reginald was sitting on the bed, complaining like an old man that all the furniture removal was going to put his back out, with his precious memry box held to his chest. “Now, I know this might be a rather boring indulgence of mine, but would you like to take a look?”

Reginald raised one eyebrow gently, surprised at the honour. “I’d love to, mate.” He patted the bed beside him, watching Butch sit and press the black corners in a certain pattern to open it. No wonder the mechanism had even stumped their resident locksmith.

Inside there was nothing but some old-fashioned polaroids and a phone which had mainly been used to take photos and write short stories attached to each. Most of the polaroids had stories written on the back too, and they went right back to the day Butch had been found as a baby. He was labelled as baby #239 on the back, together with the name he had been assigned. “Horrible choice for a name, don’t you think? Doesn’t even have one single F in it!”

It seemed to mean a lot to Butch that he finally had someone to show his whole life to, and most of the stories he had to tell were very enthralling, even if not always pleasant. He had picked up a flair for photography over the years of taking hundreds of photos – They certainly didn’t get through them all in a single night – and they were filled with colourful characters and incredible sights.

The orphanage had taken a photo every year on his appointed birthday too, which was all there was of his earliest life. Those stood out because Butch wasn’t smiling in a single one; most of the time he was outright scowling and in one of the later ones, he was even giving the camera the middle finger. In every single photo after those, which Butch had taken himself, he was always smiling, grinning or laughing though. He’d gone from an angry, unkempt and rough-looking hoodlum to a small, cuter version of the cheery, angelic sort of appearance he had now between two photos taken barely a fortnight apart. Butch gave no explanation for that, or for anything to do with his time at the orphanage.

They made a scratch on his sizeable collection that night, but before falling into bed together, Butch wanted to do one final thing. Despite the protests he really didn’t photograph well, there was still a new photo five minutes later that received the simple title, ‘Reginald’.

It was about time Butch started making some photos.

* * *

[There was a photo of a map of the USA with all the Freelancer-related states highlighted with appropriate colours or symbols. There were parts of other countries floating around the sides as well. Eventually it had just become an exercise in group-bonding mockery and most states had been vandalised at least once. For instance, Washington could barely be seen anymore because everyone had drawn a cat on it, with varying degrees of skill.]

One evening Florida wasn’t around Wyoming had his datapad out at the dinner table; prompted by the conversations of the other Freelancers during the afternoon, it transpired he didn’t actually know where the state of Wyoming was. “Oh, er, I’d hazard it’s at the south end of that big dustbowl bit in the middle, just above Texas?” This was considered appalling; even the other non-American Freelancers at least knew where their own state was.

Proceeding to question him on everyone else’s, Wyoming got roughly the right area for the Dakotas and Maine, confused Washington with D.C. and Carolina with California, let alone understanding that there were actually two Carolinas, thought New York state was only as big as the city and was completely lost without a clue when it came to Connecticut. “Wow. I did not think it was possible to suck that badly at states,” the forsaken C.T. said. “State capitals, maybe, but wow.”

“Well, I apologise for not giving a toss about the bland geography inside your very important country,” Wyoming retorted scathingly, “but I bet not a single one of you yanks could name a single county in England.”

“Wales?” Wash guessed from down the table.

“I stand corrected...” Wyoming snorted sarcastically.

It was then Florida finally turned up to the table and was filled in on his boyfriend’s ignorance. “What about me then?” asked the one state he was yet to guess.

“Oh, I know you,” Wyoming answered much more confidently; “you’re the little appendix bit bottom right. Very sunny. Full of oranges and all that.”

Everyone else exchanged sceptical looks while Florida congratulated him on his knowledge. The one rightly-guessed state got everyone in on drawing the map later for educative and team-building purposes. All those not American added their own home equivalents around the side in a fitting place.

It remained taped to the wall in the rec room through everything that would come to pass onboard the Mother of Invention over the coming years, sometimes vandalised, sometimes cleaned up with Florida’s Tipex, but always a reminder of the Project’s oddly-named Freelancers.

 

[There was a photo of Reginald sitting at their desk looking very intellectual whilst typing on a projected keyboard from his datapad. He had earphones in and was completely oblivious to the camera.]

During a game of Freelancer Cluedo – The exciting game of _‘Which idiot caused the Director to give us today’s lousy mission?’_ that’s fun for all the Project! – Wyoming’s incorrect guess meant he had to forfeit a personal question to the rest of the group, and they wanted to know what he was always writing in his notebook.

He admitted his secret shame that he was writing ideas and sections for his plays and novels, and that he had planned on being a writer really. He had only joined the military after finding out what a good shot he was with a sniper rifle, how much he enjoyed being a good shot with a sniper rifle and to get life experience as inspiration for better stories. And, of course, for all the fun he had sitting around playing these lame board games in the evenings.

Whether or not he was writing based on his experiences in Project Freelancer, being here did seem to inspire him. Butch even let his boyfriend spend the late evenings that were their alone time writing sometimes, but would start to feel a bit neglected if Reginald took too long about it and eventually start masturbating rather noisily for attention. That was why Reginald often wore earphones whilst writing.

Florida claimed to the group his writings were actually very good, having got to finally read them. His opinion was dismissed as ‘biased by sex with the author’ and York began planning his infiltration to liberate these stories for the sake of group morale.

And by the way, it turned out today’s lousy mission was the fault of North in the Locker Room with Redbull in the Director’s Coffee.

 

[There was a photo of Florida being held squirming but laughing above Carolina’s head by the female agent while she looked very pleased with herself, about to throw him into the glue pit that lay beneath the rope crawl as part of the obstacle course. York and South were standing around clapping and cheering her on.]

The first armour upgrades were finally handed out, just in time for Christmas. Everyone got one except South, Maine, Wyoming and Florida. They quickly formed the ‘We’re good enough without them’ club in retaliation to the teasing.

Two new agents also joined them around the same time, Georgia and Utah, since the Project had finally achieved its purpose by getting these enhancements ready to roll out, and only a full 10 months after the first agents had been recruited. Utah received the domed energy shield, and _that_ ended well, whilst Georgia didn’t even survive long enough for anyone to really find out what his enhancement was, although apparently it involved something to do with producing flash-bang-type explosions of light at will which always ended up blinding Georgia too, although that might have just been one of those rumours somebody liked to start.

In any case, after those two came and went so quickly, to the point it was just plain embarrassing, Freelancer never tried to introduce new agents again and the domed energy shield, after further refinement, was eventually given to North. That only reinforced South’s belief she was good enough without one.

They came and went so quickly in fact that Wash, who was in medical at the time Georgia disappeared, didn’t even hear what actually happened. (Rumour had it Utah went the same way trying to find him; others said he died during the testing. One person even said the whole thing was just a conspiracy and there had never been a Utah to begin with, not even as a state in the actual USA.) Wash was very annoyed, when he found out the gist, that he was therefore the designated ‘rookie’ again despite not being the youngest.

“I think that’s due to your, you know, general incompetence,” York laughingly suggested.

“What?!” Wash exploded. “How am I incompetent?!”

North picked up the challenge, “Uh, weren’t you just in medical for nearly a fortnight because you tripped over a dead body and twisted your ankle?”

“...Shut up.”

And with Carolina’s new speed boost, she was finally able to beat Florida’s unofficial record for the obstacle course whilst doing everything properly. She had celebrated that with throwing him into the glue pit, a cruel revenge Wyoming had simply watched and taken a photo of rather than stepping in to prevent.

The armour enhancements were undoubtedly a great benefit to the team, although some still felt theirs were rather difficult to use, or found they had been artificially limited to allow for safer usage. Project Freelancer would have to find a solution to that...

 

[There was a photo of Maine and Wash’s victory dance in front of the TV in the rec room, with Florida sitting on the floor beside them clapping. Even from a still it was easy to tell Maine’s dancing was far superior and that Wash had all the graceful coordination of a newborn foal.]

Occasionally, Florida created training initiatives for the rest of the Freelancers. This time he had gotten the idea for sensory deprivation training in case of sight or hearing loss on the field and simply to enhance their senses anyway. They all agree to take part when threatened with hearing how Florida had been inspired with the idea, a story that involved Wyoming, blindfolds and just a little smidgen of bondage.

On the whole, most agents preferred the sight-deprivation training simply because it didn’t involve Florida’s ingenious solution for blocking their hearing by playing music through the helmet radio systems, citing it as more distracting and realistic than something like white noise. It would have been all right if he hadn’t used his own music collection, and sung along to every song through the radios too. No one could deny Florida was a brilliant singer – He had spent three months filling in as the lead singer for a rather famous band just over the border in Canada a couple of years ago – but that didn’t stop it being incredibly annoying as a distraction whilst they tried to hunt him down.

Wyoming rather enjoyed the serenade, even if he refused to join in when Butch wanted to do a duet, until ‘Flowers-Powers Radio’ decided to play the song he had said represented his feelings for Butch and the entire team learnt of his embarrassing musical tastes. He regretted ever sharing that song with Butch then.

One rather surprising thing that came out of the session, however, was Wash actually wanting to hear _more_ of Florida’s music; apparently they had extremely similar tastes and already shared a lot of songs.

Of course Florida was absolutely delighted to!

From then on, although their rivalry remained, it began involving less things that explode and more video game competitions. As the old saying goes; in any century, _Super Smash Bros._ is always the best way to decide things. They began to approach something that was pretty friendly, if still often competitive.

And no matter what they were playing, or how bad he was, Butch always wanted Reginald on his team. He eventually got better.

 

[There was a photo of North displaying the cake made by Florida for Reginald’s 29th birthday to the birthday-boy, with the Director and Counsellor lingering and chatting in the back of shot. Reginald looked a little exasperated by the cake’s design, but was smiling sincerely at his boyfriend behind the camera. Butch had made Victoria sponge cake – Reginald would have such a classic favourite after all – iced with white icing, decorated with strawberry hearts and a rainbow-coloured cut-out of Wyoming state. Around the sides, Butch had also piped very neat, little black moustaches.]

Agent Florida made a fuss every birthday. He made a cake every birthday. He made _everyone_ attend _every_ birthday. The cake and free food was so good no one ever bothered to fight it after a while. They just skipped dinner and came straight to the parties.

This time though, he really had gone all out for his dearly beloved’s birthday when it came to decorations and badgering 479er to smuggle in some extra special presents for him, although a couple were to be opened and played with later in private.

There was such a fuss this time that even the Director couldn’t ignore it. Normally he stayed away from all the celebrations, although he had very awkwardly stood in the doorway of Carolina’s party for a few moments, hand clutching the doorframe for support, before seeing if he could summon enough courage to go in and wish her ‘happy birthday’, and then promptly leaving when he couldn’t.

The Counsellor had somehow persuaded him to go to this one, in light of the recent extra stress he had been put through, and frankly the Director was concerned these celebrations of Florida’s were getting out of hand. Where did he get all the extra food and decorations from? How did he persuade the mess hall staff to let him use the kitchen long enough to make such elaborate cakes? And when did he even find all the time to keep setting these parties up when he was meant to be training all day?!

“Oh, you don’t need to worry your clever head about those things, Sir! I manage just fine by myself!” How had Florida managed to take that as an offer of help? “Here, have some lemonade!”

The Director took the cup pushed with gentle but firm insistence into his hands. The Counsellor was looking on with subtle amusement as the head of Project Freelancer stared down at the pink party cup, utterly bewildered by the beverage inside of it. But with Florida still grinning right in front of him, the Director couldn’t avoid taking a sip. “...That’s not bad, Agent Florida,” the Director eventually admitted, trying not to be the awkward ‘dad’ at their teenager’s birthday party. “But... why is it blue?” The lemonade Florida had thrust upon him was a pale, cobalt blue colour.

“Because I made it from blue lemons, silly!” Florida laughed carelessly, grabbing the Director’s arm and dragging him further into the celebrations. “Now come and join in the party games! You look like you’d be good at Pictionary!”

It turned out the Director wasn’t very good at Pictionary. He was, however, very good at Cards Against Humanity for some reason, a talent and game the Counsellor wasn’t very approving of.

 

[There was a photo of Florida, Texas and 479er sitting on the edge of a pelican’s wing together. They were all in armour but Florida and 479er were sans helmet and grinning. Texas had a smiley face drawn on the front of her visor at least, and was making a _friendly_ gesture at the camera in gratitude for it.]

Florida didn’t even get there until the end. Straight after dinner he’d been roped into assisting with pelican maintenance by 479er through the promise of a discount on his next smuggling. After he had finished, no one had been in their room or the rec room; no Freelancers at all. He began to wander cautiously towards the mess hall, operating under the possible assumption there had been a food fight and they’d been forced to clean it up or have their TV privileges taken away; it wouldn’t have been the first time.

Then he saw the medical crews running.

Florida slipped into the training room floor while a whole load of fuss was ensuing, quickly assessing half of the agents hadn’t been fighting, there was a new black-armoured person being assisted by the science team, Wyoming looked like he had been fighting but was okay, so was Maine-

And then he saw York past the white suits of the medics. What had-?

The Director was there so quickly, too quickly. Inside his helmet, Florida frowned slightly. He had been watching a training match in which he must have been able to foresee a potential injury and let it go, and was now commending the ingenuity of-

Live ammunition?! Reginald had been involved in a fight with live ammunition?!

Florida checked again but his boyfriend was just having solvent applied to his lockdown paint by Maine who then helped him up. For all the joker agent usually agreed with the Director at every turn training should be made as realistic as possible, he drew the line at anything this dangerous. He had to go over and see Wyoming, find out what had happened, but for a moment longer stayed back in the shadows of the doorframe.

The person in black armour was led out past him whilst everyone else remained, their gold visor briefly turning to observe him pointedly before they continued making every effort to slip out as quickly and unseen as possible. It wasn’t hard when all the other agents were focussed on what the medical team were saying about York’s condition as they loaded him onto a stretcher. Florida heard ‘going to live’ yet ‘severe damage to the left eye area’ and skirted aside as they rushed him out, going to Wyoming. “It’s just awful what’s happened to York. What do you think I ought to make him as a ‘Get well soon’?” He didn’t get an answer. His suspicions blazed. “I heard there was live ammo involved; you are all right, aren’t you, Reginald?” Florida asked a little lower in tone this time.

Wyoming was flexing one of his wrists and pointedly not looking at him. “Not now, old boy,” he said as if faraway in thought, walking out without even a word to invite Florida along.

And Florida was always ‘dear’ now, if not ‘love’ or ‘pet’.

Casting an analytical look around the room with a casual sweep of his head, Florida followed Wyoming out. The white agent might have been much larger but Florida could still swing him round by the breastplate and press his back to the wall in the corridor if he caught him off-guard. “ _You_ were one of the ones using live ammunition. I’m very disappointed in you, Reginald.”

A slight tsk could be heard from inside Wyoming’s helmet. “Director’s orders, okay, mate? I didn’t want to.” Partially true at least; he hadn’t wanted to until Texas had beaten him so thoroughly for so many rounds of one of his best training exercises.

Florida’s grip relented slightly, and he managed to look down on Wyoming even though he had to look up. “But you did. And judging by the team, you were the one that landed the hit on their arm.” He had seen the sparks. You didn’t overlook something as obvious as that if you wanted to live no matter what.

“Ah, I’m flattered by the assumption, Butch, truly,” Wyoming chuckled smugly. He didn’t admit it.

But he didn’t deny it. “And I heard ‘Texas’ which would make them a new Freelancer. Why would the Director order you to put them into danger like that?” And why had it been 3-against-1? And why had the 3 lost? Florida was putting together some pieces of a rather disconcerting jigsaw.

“Look, can we discuss this more civilly in our room, eh? Our new agent beat me black and blue, if you must know,” Wyoming muttered in lament for his wounded pride and brushed Florida’s loose grip off him like a fly on a rather delectable cake. “I could do with a nice, relaxing _treatment_ , if you know what I mean. Up for a bit of that?”

Florida let it drop for now, and he gave in to Wyoming’s unsubtle request for a pre-sex massage when he saw the aching, bruised state his body was in beneath the armour. Butch hadn’t heard that being fucked face-first into a mattress cured all aches and pains, but he couldn’t argue with the content, mewling groans Reginald made afterwards as he stretched out languorously to sleep.

However, Florida picked the matter back up later that evening when Reginald was all tucked up in bed recuperating and he could slip out of his room. Taking an educated guess, he didn’t have to go far to find a room that had a different door code to the 1234 used for unoccupied rooms. So ‘Texas’ was a special agent as well after all. A very good fighter, most likely with a prosthetic right arm and a special relationship to the Director to prompt that sort of testing. Fascinating.

The door opened suddenly, and Florida remembered incorrect codes sent a message in to anyone inside the room. Texas was still in armour, perhaps only just back from the science team then. “What?”

Oh, and it sounded like she was a girl as well. How fabulous! Ah. But what was he doing here at her room? “Room service!”

“Room service?” Texas repeated incredulously. “Huh.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the jamb and cocking her head down towards his waist. “So even room service carries knives onboard this ship?”

Florida also looked down to the small assortment of knives concealed in his belt beneath the ammo, most of which weren’t actually ammo. Looking at Cut, Paste and Mr. Slicey with fondness, he lifted his head and cheerfully answered, “I like to cut corners while I do my job!”

Texas snorted and then actually laughed a bit. “You’re Agent Florida, aren’t you?”

“I sure am, and happy as a clam to meet you, Agent Texas!” He didn’t bother saluting because his hand was too busy covering his mouth while he yawned. It was really getting rather late. “Oh dear! You must excuse me for that, but how did you know who I am? You’re new around here, so I hear.”

Texas took a look up and down the corridor before beckoning him into her room. It was still completely bare of any personal effects. “Let’s just say they described you well,” she said.

“Well isn’t that clever of them? But don’t hold out on me now; what did they say?” Because who wouldn’t be curious to know?

Falling carelessly into her chair, Texas gave a single noise of laughter. “The Director said,” and she mimicked his voice very well, “”Florida’s a wildcard, our Swiss army knife. One hell of a messy childhood and the worst court-martial rap sheet I’ve ever had the _pleasure_ to see. Always smiling like a loon.””

“Aw! How nice!” Florida seemed very satisfied by that description. “Did they also describe the other agents to you? I’d love to know how they described Agent Wyoming!”

“You mean your sugar daddy?” Texas sounded amused.

“Now, he’s more than just that,” Florida corrected.

“Sure... Yeah, they said look for the moustache if he’s got his helmet off, listen for the British accent if he’s got it on,” she succinctly repeated. “They also might have said something about best sniper, maybe.”

Well, Florida was pleased with that. He always worried his partner wasn’t all too popular with the higher-ups.

“Hey,” Texas attracted his attention again; “you and Wyoming are close, right?”

“Closer than scissor blades, and just as lethal!”

The other agent cocked her head slightly at his phrasing. Florida admitted to himself it was getting a bit sloppy but he was tired. “Okay, but could you keep a secret from him if you had to? For the sake of the Project, or as an order?”

Secrets? “Sure. I might love him as much as my own life but I certainly don’t want him knowing absolutely everything that goes through my head.” There were _a lot_ of things Reginald couldn’t know, could never see or hear or realise. What was a few more on that? Besides, even if he did let any slip, Reginald was a good old chap who wouldn’t spread it any further if it would get either of them into trouble.

“Good. I think we can get along then,” she nodded.

“I’d sure like to!”

“No, you don’t get me, Florida,” Texas explained directly, standing and coming to face him. She was a little taller. “I’m not here to get along with the other Freelancers. I’m not here for the games and free food. I’m _here_ because this project is _all_ I live for, my whole reason for being alive. I’m _not_ making friends and I’m _not_ joining teams. Now, you might appear to be the complete opposite of me,” she continued in a slightly lighter tone for a moment, “but I’ve watched you training. On the battlefield, you and I are exactly alike; versatile, ruthless, able to do _whatever_ it takes.” Florida’s dark, indigo eyes stared piercingly into her visor, curious and perceptive. “I’ve got the fighting skill you haven’t, but I have to say you have me beat on a lot of other skills and creative thinking. So, if I ever do need to partner up, I want it to be you, okay?”

Florida was still staring into her, but then seemed to resolve himself. “Why, absolutely, Agent Texas! But I’m afraid Reginald still has first dibs.”

He got a light snort out of her again. “I’d say I don’t know what you see in him, but my type’s not too dissimilar.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, not happening,” she shot down the obvious.

“Well, I’d like you to know that I always respect someone’s right to privacy, Agent Texas,” he confirmed. “But if we are going to be partners, I really must insist we get together and bond over something at some point.”

“Again, not happening.”

“What if I beat you on the obstacle course?” Florida offered, seeing a button to press.

Texas definitely seemed to consider him for a second. “All right, you cocky little Barbie. Beat me on the obstacle course and I’ll hang out with you some time.”

Barbie? That was a new one; Butch liked to assume it was because he was pretty and blonde. “Fastest time wins?”

“You’re on.”

And that was why, three days later, the other Freelancers piled into the rec room after dinner to find Florida, Texas and 479er occupying the couch together watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. They were all in armour but Florida and 479er were without their helmets.

“So, uh, you like this sort of stuff, Texas?” North tried awkwardly after drawing the short straw to go ask what the hell was going on.

“Yeah,” Texas shrugged, not sharing in the popcorn the other two were passing back and forth. “She reminds me of myself at that age.”

“What? You went around stabbing people in the chest at night too?” Carolina called harshly from where she was sitting far across the room. She had been on edge every day she had to visit medical only to be told York was okay but couldn’t be released yet. York was unfairly frosty only to Wyoming whenever the group visited, even when it was pointed out who had actually thrown the grenade. Wyoming had formed a retaliation of telling endless knock knock jokes to York, hidden under the pretext of cheering him up, when he found out York hated the things.

“Hey, fuck you!”

“Now, that’s not very nice, Agent Texas,” Florida lightly scolded. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to make you a soap-flavoured birthday cake if you can’t control your tongue any better.”

“Go suck a moustache,” Texas tried to hit him lightly, but she never hit lightly.

Florida just rubbed his arm and hummed to himself. He knew she didn’t have a birthday, the same way he knew her prosthetics didn’t stop at her arm.

“Ah, that’d be me then.” Wyoming had been leaning on the back of the couch, trying to work out what the bally hell was going on in this show. “Can I join?”

“Me too?” Wash had been peering at the screen with interest.

“Yeah, but you gotta’ sit on the floor,” Texas instructed. “The couch is for girls only.”

The boys that wanted to watch took their front row seats, but Wash had to ask, “So how come Florida’s allowed on it? I mean, aside from how he looks.”

“Because he’s the only one of you guys man enough to be our girlfriend,” 479er answered. Whilst it made sense Florida and Texas had quickly become acquainted because they often trained together, her friendship with the enigmatic black agent was more of a mystery.

“What? But-! That doesn’t make any sense!” Wash objected.

“It would if you were man enough,” Texas said.

“...What?!”

“Now shut up; she’s about to use the rocket launcher,” the Queen of the couch insisted, kicking the back of Wash’s head for good measure.

“My, I suppose wooden stakes and garlic are rather old hat...” Wyoming mused from the floor where Florida was fussing with his hair.

They watched for a bit, before 479er spoke up. “Eh, I prefer season 4. There’s just something about a hot, part-robot guy that means you can reprogram him whenever he’s a dick.”

“I like Mayor Wilkins myself,” Florida threw in his two credits; “really nice guy.”

“Yeah, you would,” their pilot replied. “But seriously, if you ask me to smuggle you in a box of spiders, I’m flinging you into the nearest sun.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Florida agreed.

Wyoming really didn’t get this show.

 

[There was a photo taken through the observation window into the medical room of Wyoming lying in bed sleeping, heavy bandages wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. In the glass, a reflection could be seen of Florida standing, taking the photo with a thin, hard smile and a hand gripping his phone far too hard.]

The rankings really shifted about after that little fight. It appeared willingness to obey morally questionable orders got you a lot of points considering Wyoming and Maine had moved up to second and third place respectively on the board. Wyoming told him he ought to feel very privileged sleeping with the second best agent in the Project, but Florida was too busy attending to his lurking doubts to fully enjoy the honour. Between the things Texas mentioned and that he spent his free training eavesdropping on around the ship, it seemed he had plenty to be suspicious about.

The Sarcophagus heist. Florida was glad Wyoming was placed in team B for his safety, considering what A would be up to. It also meant they got to share the same pelican on the way there, even if Florida had to sit up front playing co-pilot with Ricky; sweet boy, too jumpy to be a good pilot though.

They dropped North, Wyoming and C.T. off at their point then simply had to get out of sight, ready for extraction later. Florida knew he just had to wait patiently whilst Ricky landed alongside 479er’s pelican on top of a nearby tower half a mile away. It was their waiting point, and Florida really hoped he wasn’t going to get that call he needed to be thrown in to help one of the teams. This was his job most big missions; sit back, wait until something went wrong, fix what went wrong.

“Hmm... Star? Are there stars out yet?” Ricky guessed.

Florida chuckled. “No, not quite yet. Nice try though; have another one.”

“Mm... Sock? Like that windsock over there?” the boy pointed. Ricky was one of the only crew members aboard the MOI younger than Florida. That made him feel rather brotherly towards the naive but eager little pilot.

“No, but don’t stop guessing.” Really. It was terribly boring otherwise. Neither team had reported in at all yet.

“Umm...”

“Rick, what are you staring at?” 479er asked with exasperation through their com-link.

“Uh, the windshield?”

“Past the freaking windshield!”

“Oh! The city! Does its name begin with-?”

“It’s the big, goddamn sunset we’re staring right at, right, Florida?”

“Bingo! Another point for you, good friend!” he answered, feeling a little bad Ricky had only gotten two so far. 479er was far too harsh on the boy.

“Aw! I said sun...”

“My turn then,” 479er began. “I spot, while I’m waiting for that lazy lot, something beginning with-”

“479er, this is team Alpha. We need evac on the roof of the tower,” Carolina’s voice came through.

“Roger that. I’m on it.”

They heard engines and then she was gone.

Ricky watched the other pelican go excitedly, then turning back to Florida. “Does that mean I get to take her turn?”

“Well, sure. Choose whatever you like, but get the engines running while you do.” Florida always gave a few wrong guesses for the boy’s sake before guessing correctly. It was too obvious when he looked at the thing he was spotting.

“All right, then...” The chipper little pilot looked about whilst doing as told. “I spot-“

“525er, this is team Bravo. We need emergency evacuation **now**. We have wounded,” North’s voice suddenly shouted over the com-link.

“Ricky!”

“O-Oh God, on it!” He might have been a skittish little thing but Ricky really moved quick when it mattered. “Florida, get visuals. Guide me in.”

“Roger.” They were already on their way to Bravo’s location and Florida’s mind was instantly back in top gear.

North had made the call. Therefore wounded had to C.T. or- Poor C.T. getting wounded – _It can’t be him_ – He just had to alleviate their situation and get her out fast – _Just wounded. They- **She** will be fine._

“We’re pinned down under fire so keep aware,” North continued. “What’s the status of team A?”

“Team A just called in for evac on the roof,” Florida answered him, bringing up a zoomed view so he could pinpoint them and advise. _Oh no._ “They sounded good to go.”

“Great, well...” North did not sound so good. “If they could find the time to help us, that’d be fantastic. Otherwise, make sure they get the objective and get us out of here.”

“Roger. Florida?” Ricky called back.

 _No, not him. That wasn’t-_ Florida saw team B taking cover behind a car tipped on its side, a roadblock full of vehicles and armed enemies shooting at them from the other side. They were approaching roughly from the side B was taking cover on. _Not him!_ “Ricky, controls!” Florida leapt over the co-pilot’s station to the main cockpit.

“What?!”

“Now, you’re going to have to trust me on this by moving into the troop bay, locking yourself in and hoping really hard,” Florida said, half-forcing him from his seat.

“Why don’t _you_ get in the back, and I’ll fly you over so you can jump out?!” Ricky objected rather squeakily, despite already having been removed from the controls. “That’s what you do, right?”

Florida spared him a glance. “What? Oh, my helmet? No, that’s just a fashion statement,” he answered lightly, giving a short tap to his ODST model. “Now, I believe I told you to take a seat in the back, Ricky.”

“But what are you going to-?!”

“ **Get in the back!** ”

“Y-Yes Sir!”

Florida had done quite a few piloting lessons, but he was pretty sure no lesson ever taught you this manoeuvre.

“Team B, I hope you’re ready for assistance,” Florida called over the com-link, swooping round to line up the pelican directly with the road, facing Team B’s position and the roadblock beyond that, “and now I’d like you all to duck.”

“Duck?!” North did not sound reassured by the instruction, but if Florida gave a command... and his pelican _was_ coming in very, very, “Oh, crap! Ducking!” low.

The bottom of the pelican flew literally less than a metre above the edge of the car they were sheltering behind. It then turned sharply as it touched down, skidding across the tarmac and taking out at least half the roadblock before coming to a grinding halt partly amidst the remaining vehicles.

Florida had dived from his seat and was already in the back when bullets started going through the windshield. “All right there?” he asked the rather tense Ricky struggling to release his safety cage.

“Yeah! That was... really something! Wow!” the boy said, finally getting free.

Aw, sometimes he just wanted to have that kid call him, ‘big brother’ or maybe even ‘daddy’ but they could discuss that later. “Now, I want you to stay safe in here, Ricky,” Florida instructed, going to the back end. “When the fighting’s stopped, I need you to patch up the windshield and get ready for takeoff.”

“Right!”

At the back of the troop bay, the door was still closed. Florida took out what enemies he could putting his rifle through the open slot at the top but thankfully someone on Team B was helping him get the rest.

He suddenly heard turrets from the front of the ship, an explosion, and then a lot less gunfire coming from that side. Glancing back, Ricky had crawled in low and operated the turret controls from the floor; he was a good boy, that one. Florida was definitely putting a gold star on his report card for this mission.

“North, can you use that fancy scanner of yours on the remaining enemies?” Florida asked over the helmet radios.

“Yeah...” North responded, “there’s a lot of hot, dead bodies out there, quite a few wounded. On your... left, I think. Check your eleven. There’s three behind that small car.”

“Okey-dokey!” Florida took his assault rifle in, added the grenade launcher attachment, and got a nice, clean shot into the seating of the vehicle. It blew up, catching them in the blast if not with the car itself. A shot came from Team B’s direction for the one survivor.

“Okay, I think we’re clear,” North said. “I’ll guide you over here and you can take out the remaining wounded.”

“Coming right away!” He slammed the button for the door release, before coming out sprinting, moving between points of cover as directed by North with his thermal scanner to finish off anyone still a potential threat. The entire living part of the roadblock had now joined its inanimate, often-on-fire vehicle part and Florida could make his way over to Team B’s position.

Another one of his skills more trained than the average Freelancer was field medicine. But God, he was choking as he crouched down by the barely moving, slightly bloodied white armour.

“Single bullet wound to the upper left chest, no vitals hit I think. Another just grazed the right side of his waist, between the armour plates. Aside from that, multiple wounds to armoured parts.” C.T. began a quick report. “I check his vital signs; they’re stable but struggling.”

Agent Wyoming was lying on his left side, his breathing desperate grabs for air. “Reggie? Reginald?!” Barely responsive. He just tried to make a firmer noise than a raspy breath and his fingers flexed slightly. “Biofoam?”

“Injected,” C.T. responded.

Florida was assessing what he could with as little movement of the injured as possible. The waist wound wasn’t serious; the body suit was dealing with the worst. Most of the armour ones hadn’t gone through or were simply lodged shallowly in his skin. The shoulder though. The bullet had gone clean through and taken a chunk of flesh with it. It would have been severe at the time but the bleeding was minor now and it was far enough from the heart. He put his hand in Reginald’s left, squeezing once. “Squeeze my hand.”

There was no response.

Florida leant down, pressing the front of his helmet to Wyoming’s. “Reginald, I need you to squeeze my hand,” he insisted with a stern, aching voice.

Again, for so painfully long, there was no response. “...Hh... b... ch...” Then he squeezed back with all the weak strength he could muster.

No apparent nerve or muscle damage. He was also still reasonably conscious despite the blood loss. “North, chest. C.T., cover us.” Reinforcements would doubtless be coming soon.

North grabbed Wyoming around the chest whilst C.T. stood ready and armed. Florida took his lover’s legs, knowing he didn’t quite have the strength to carry the heavier end but he felt no pain at all now supporting all the weight he could. There was no pain that meant anything when it existed in the same world that the pain of potentially losing Reginald did.

They got him back to the pelican and Florida continued doing all he could with the medical kit onboard after getting Wyoming into a seat and pulling his safety cage down. Ricky was already up and flying off towards Team A’s quickly moving location further along the freeway.

They picked up an erratically jet-packing Wash along the way, who had apparently jumped out of 479er’s pelican in the attempt to be useful but had simply ended up causing a traffic jam for the civilians still attempting to use this road for normal, non-death-related purposes.

Then they quickly grabbed York and a badly injured Maine just before a closed tunnel. By this time, Florida had done all he could for Wyoming and simply sat beside his slumped and barely conscious Reginald, assault rifle in hands as he thought back through every medical training session he hadn’t quite taken seriously enough, just hadn’t paid enough attention to in order to know how to deal with this. He didn’t even think about helping Maine.

Finally they picked up Carolina, helmetless. York leaned down out of the back, offering his hand to her. She took it and could squeeze his wrist tightly.

With Maine injured too, medical was completely occupied when they returned. Maine was slightly worse, but Florida had plans if their preferential treatment of him in any way detrimented the treatment they gave to Reginald.

The debriefing washed past him, and even when the Director personally commended him for the single-handed rescue of Team B, Florida’s mind was racing through what he couldn’t have done:

He couldn’t have asked to be assigned to Team B from the start; that wasn’t his role.

He couldn’t have known to get there any faster before it happened; bullets travel at 1,700 mph.

He couldn’t have taken the bullets for Reginald; with his armour he wouldn’t have survived.

By the time they were released, Reginald still wasn’t out of surgery. Florida went back to their room hollowly, stripping off the pieces of his armour with lacklustre carelessness. There was a knock on the door when he was down to just his bodysuit.

479er. “I just wanted to say that was an ace move you pulled out there today. Ricky was pinging off the walls telling me about it, literally – mainly because I was throwing him at them because he would not shut up.”

“Thank you...” It didn’t save him though.

She frowned at him disapprovingly. Florida was just staring down at the floor like even it deserved to be on top of him. “It saved the whole frickin’ B team, Butch.” He looked up with a haunted but sincerely grateful smile. “So get your ass in gear, sort out that helmet-hair and get down to medical. He isn’t going to be lying there all sexy and bandaged forever, you know.”

...Yes. “Yes, you’re certainly right! I’ll get down there in just a tic!” Finally, Florida grinned again.

“Yeah, yeah, you better. I just had to say Wyoming is sexy to get you down there,” 479er pulled a face slightly before walking off. “Seriously, the things I do for you, Flowers...”

“Are greatly appreciated!” he called after her to finish her ellipsis. Butch then turned, clapped his hands brightly and went to have a shower.

Freshened up and smiling powerfully, he went down to medical once again. Visiting time was over but the observation room remained open all night. Along the way he passed a small terminal displaying the Freelancer leaderboard; Wyoming was gone from second place. He didn’t even notice the other changes as Butch scrolled it down instead.

At the bottom, the place reserved for inactive Freelancers; Wyoming had been ‘graveyarded’ as the team _affectionately_ said. Maine was there too but hopefully that meant he was going to pull through. It wasn’t like Butch wanted him to die, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made if there were only so many doctors to go around.

He continued on to medical, smiling much harder now. Slipping into the observation room, there he was.

Reginald was out of surgery and lying on one of the beds. His chest was heavily bandaged and he didn’t look that comfortable but he was sleeping somehow, and good enough to be out even with various monitoring and support equipment attached. Maine, sadly, wasn’t yet there.

“...Agent Wyoming’s condition is listed as critical but stable, if you would like to know, Agent Florida,” FILSS quietly spoke up after he had been standing there for a moment.

Butch glanced towards her panel. There were a lot of them all over the ship after all. “Thank you, FILSS. And Agent Maine?”

“Agent Maine has been stabilised and is expected to make a full recovery within 2 weeks, but the doctors are still working trying to assess the possibility of repairing his vocal chords. They believe there is a low possibility of him retaining standard speech functions when he recovers,” she answered.

“Oh deary me... But no permanent damage to Reginald?”

“The doctors do not believe there will be any,” FILSS responded with no comment on his priorities. “They expect he will be hospitalised for at least another week, but after that will likely be released. The prognosis suggests a month for full recovery; his injuries are more widespread than Agent Maine’s and there is less that can be healed surgically.”

“Well that’s splendid.” Not really. But Butch said it anyway as he dug in his pockets, bringing out the phone he always used as his camera.

He took a photo there to always remind him that even when Reginald got into this state, he did recover, and so he’d remember the origin of the sexy new scars his lover was going to have once he got better.

“My clock indicates it is 1:31am, Agent Florida. You should get some rest,” the computer system spoke up again when he had remained there another five minutes impassively.

“I will FILSS,” he assured her. “When I have someone to sleep beside.”

When Reginald got better.

 

[There was a photo of Florida sitting on Wyoming’s lap in their corner of the mess hall. C.T. was leaning into the side of shot lighting candles on a cake that wasn’t as impressive as the ones Florida made for people’s birthdays whilst trying to keep someone’s grabby hand off it. Party poppers had been let off all over the table and Florida was trying to tie some of the paper strings from them around the ends of Wyoming’s moustache, who was leaning away and not pleased at the plan.]

Well, that was strange. There was no one at the Freelancer’s table and it was marked ‘reserved’, so Wyoming shrugged and went to their personal corner. Florida turned up before long, also confused at everyone’s absence this evening. They had made plans to sit at this table together anyway tonight but-

“Yes?” Florida turned around to the tap on his shoulder, setting his tray down as he did.

It was C.T. and somehow everyone else had appeared out of nowhere forming a semi-circle around the side of their table. “3, 2, 1-!

BANG! “Happy Anniversary!” Some were less enthusiastic about it than others, but they all wanted to shoot party poppers at Freelancer’s most infamous, and irritating, couple. Most of the rest of the room clapped and cheered.

“Why, thank you, everyone! This really is just wonderful of you,” Florida graciously accepted as a cake was produced too. No wonder the staff had absolutely refused to give him any desert tonight.

“Yes... thanks very much,” Wyoming muttered more sarcastically, picking some of the popper string off his food that he was quite certain York had deliberately shot there.

“Blame C.T.,” Carolina told them; “she was the one that remembered the date and organised this. Half of them only agreed for the cake.”

Indeed, everyone disappeared under the pretext of giving them some time alone for their anniversary dinner once they had their slice of cake, but not before Florida had given C.T. a big gratitude hug, an adorable gesture between the two smallest Freelancers. Thanks to various other crew members turning up to offer their congratulations and subsequently being offered some of the cake by Florida, by the end of their dinner they had barely managed any time alone together and had very little of their own cake left.

Unsurprisingly, no one saw them for the rest of the night.

 

[There was a photo of Florida poking at Delta with a fork at the breakfast table. The AI was regarding the implement lodged halfway through his holographic body with an unimpressed incline of his head.]

They were given the news about the AI shortly before being individually interviewed to assess their suitability. Apparently the AIs were all individuals like them and so compatible partnerships were important.

Florida was the last to get interviewed. Wyoming had already returned from his the previous evening saying that all they did was ask your response to various theoretical situations, particularly focussing on your emotional responses. Florida’s interview, however, did not proceed like the others’.

“Agent Florida, please take a seat,” the Counsellor gestured across the table between them in his office. It was taken without response. “I would like to ask you first how you feel about the prospect of AI implantation.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind knowing a little more about AIs and the process first,” Florida replied, “but I do admit it having a little helmet buddy like that would probably be quite the help out in the field.”

“And _off_ the field?”

Florida sat quietly for a moment. He had come straight from training so his helmet remained on. “I wasn’t aware they were meant to help us off the field as well,” was all he could think to say.

The Counsellor gave him a small smile, but it was rather sympathetic, almost pitying one. “If you don’t mind, Agent Florida, I would like to make a speculation. You are, of course, welcome to disagree and I would prefer to be corrected if what I say is not actually the case.” Florida nodded. “I hope you do not take any offence at this, but I believe that in spite of your very warm, friendly manner of presentation, you are actually a very private person who has a great many thoughts you wish to keep to yourself. That may be why you put up such a front, if I can call it that, in order that these things remain unnoticed and to allow you fuller control over how you present yourself to others. Does that sound about right?”

Florida clucked his tongue, rolling his head a little and looking aside. “Boy, you sure do see straight through me, don’t you?”

“It is not that illogical a coping mechanism,” the Counsellor assured him, or perhaps simply informed him. “I am aware, for example, that you know of certain things the Project would prefer you not to,” Florida looked up, but it did not seem he was being punished at all for it, “but as far as I can tell, you have not passed most of this information on to Agent Wyoming.”

“Secrets are very important things,” Florida said with a rather evasive air.

“Indeed. I am glad you see things that way.” He didn’t look glad. He looked as impenetrably content and knowing as ever. “I would like to hypothesise, in light of this,” the Counsellor continued, “that you would find the presence of another being inside your mind rather distressing, as they would have access to all of your thoughts combined with the independence to pass them along to others.”

“I... I would... find that distressing, yes...” Florida admitted, digging his fingers into the gaps in his leg armour.

“That is not a problem, Agent Florida,” he was assured by the gently smiling Counsellor. “Not all agents will receive an AI after all, and no one will ask questions considering your separate role.” That was relieving, he supposed, but Florida still felt he wasn’t good enough, that he couldn’t do what was being asked of him. And he worried what that might cost him in the long term. “The Project’s main concern at this stage of implantation is ensuring the best possible matches between AI and hosts. As we are yet to... receive all the AI we hope to,” Florida definitely cocked his head just slightly, “it may be possible that we one day receive an AI that would be perfectly suited to you. One that would be discreet, conscientious and highly adaptive to your needs and situations. If that eventuality arose, would you consent to examining the possibility of AI implantation again?”

An AI for him... just like him... Some sort of shadowy, secretive thing... “I’d consent to the possibility, sure.” Florida still wasn’t all too certain. This whole process seemed... off to him. They were being forced to accept things that would be inside their brains, with their own motivations and purposes, ones likely more allied to the Project than their hosts. It just smelt plain fishy.

“I am glad to hear it. Do you have any further questions?” the Counsellor finished with the classic enquiry.

He wanted to ask about Reginald, if he had been matched with any AI, but knew confidentiality made that pointless. “Well, I wouldn’t mind knowing if you’re going to do anything about the things I know that I shouldn’t. I’d like some warning if you’re coming in the night to surgically extract them from my brain so that I can set my alarm for it; I just hate being suddenly awaken, don’t you?”

There were very few people who even had a chance of rendering the Counsellor wordless, and even less that could do so as they pleased. It was only for a moment however, until that content smile returned. “You are not the only one who believes secrets are things that should be kept, Agent Florida. Thank you for your time.”

“And thank you, Counsellor!” his patient cheerily departed.

What a nice man! Florida needed to find something he could blackmail him with.

Then came the morning York turned up to breakfast in armour which wasn’t standard practice for him with his late awakenings. He had his implantation today, the first one.

When he came back that evening, he had someone new to introduce to everyone; “Say hello, Delta.” Everyone wanted to ask, investigate and tease about the process and the AIs that evening. There was little else discussed for days.

North received his next, the adorable little Theta. There were less introductions this time; it took quite a while for Theta to warm up to meeting everyone else. He liked Florida though, when he was eventually brave enough to meet their oddball wildcard, who had taken to calling the AIs ‘helmet buddies’ instead as he felt the term ‘AI’ was dry and unfriendly to them; he saw and treated them as nothing more or less than people just like him, except for being made of computer data rather than flesh.

Florida was disappointed his solution for the sleeping problem AI caused, “A warm glass of milk, some light exercises and a small, localised EMP,” wasn’t more kindly received. But oh well, they couldn’t say he hadn’t tried to help.

Neither Florida or Wyoming received AIs, even as Maine had his AI day instead of Carolina a few months later and came back with the less liked Sigma. Neither of them had ever received armour upgrades either so they revived the ‘We’re too good anyway’ club with South by championing the fact Wyoming was now fourth on the leaderboard again.

New AIs seemed to dry up then and the Freelancers had months without an AI day.

They went back to the standard ways of keeping themselves busy.

 

[There were many photos of silly, decorative things from around the MOI such as, for one example, a chain of post-it notes along one of the corridors which had been added day-by-day, by many hands, which told a story of the Director’s quest for his morning coffee line-by-increasingly-ridiculous-line until he had ended up in a gay bar in South Carolina with an amnesiac, half-naked Counsellor and a clairvoyant duck where he finally got his coffee by agreeing to pose for this issue’s centrefold in _Hot Southern Directors Monthly._ ]

The game of the week was ‘Pin the Tail on the Florida’ or more accurately tie the ribbon on Florida.

In order to train their assassination skills without actually killing anyone, every Freelancer except Florida was handed a coloured ribbon matching their armour at the beginning of the week with the instruction they were to tie it onto any part of Florida by the end of the week using whatever means they liked that didn’t involve actual weapons. Florida was allowed to fight back, like any target probably would, and if they lost their ribbon – Wash was annoyed that everyone looked at him when that was said – they would not be given another one. There would also be a prize for the winner.

Further stipulations were added for Wyoming only, given his advantage over the rest, that his assassination had to be in view of at least one other agent so he couldn’t exploit Florida’s lessened concentration during sleep or sex.

As much as it had sounded like fun trying to assassinate his boyfriend at the initial meeting, Wyoming soon discovered this week was to have many downsides as Florida now spent all his time out of bed in full armour, went off to unknown places to elude everyone during free time and was generally suspicious of everything Wyoming tried to do.

As for the actual competition, half of the team lost before the first day was even over. Florida went into the locker room whilst everyone else was training and stole any ribbons that had been left in lockers; apparently he was allowed to do that.

C.T. tried to pounce when he left his room the next morning but instead ended up in a rather awkward embrace with Wyoming who had exited first. With his extra height, he held her aloft for a moment in spite of her ferocious squirming whilst Florida disarmed her ribbon.

Carolina just tried to speed boost at him down a corridor. Florida must have known she was about to attack because he simply side-stepped and tripped her, collecting her ribbon when she hit the wall at the other end.

Maine, of all people, tried a sneak attack in the lunch queue. Florida disarmed him with a tray to the gut then face and took both Maine’s ribbon and his banana pudding cup.

North bided his time well and set up the most elaborate plan; by agreeing to share the prize with her, he had South approach Florida in a specially selected spot and distract him by asking him to fix her deliberately jammed gun whilst he prepared to crawl up on Florida from behind and assassinate him in the leg. Florida found the reason the gun was jammed quickly but didn’t have a screwdriver or similar to get the loose screw out. “How about you, Agent North?” Aw, crap. Their twin-telepathy activated and they both lunged at once to dog-pile him. Even that didn’t work.

So that only left Wyoming, although apparently his ribbon had disappeared. Or at least, Florida reported, it wasn’t in their room anywhere. He hadn’t taken it though, and Wyoming wasn’t the type to lose things.

On the morning of the final day, over breakfast, it seemed Florida was getting the prize for surviving and he was arrogantly asking what everyone thought he should ask for, if he got a choice. Wyoming said he’d given up, seen the impossibility of the thing and just wanted to go back to the usual routine where he got to spend time with his boyfriend in the evenings that wasn’t a form of hunting. Such a nice attitude, Florida said whilst fiddling slightly with his hair, might earn him part of the prize. Everyone else thought they might have stood more of a chance trying to tie the ribbon on Texas...

As the conversation turned to the latest betting pool on the evening’s Grifball game, Florida lost interest and went on toying with his hair instead. It just didn’t feel... “Reginald, I think my braid’s a little loose,” he said, turning his back for inspection.

“Oh? Right-o,” Reginald set down his spoon, redoing his boyfriend’s hair that he must not have been paying attention for earlier. “Sorry. Just a small slip-up on my part,” he said as he finished and stroked fondly down the braid, letting it fall over Butch’s other shoulder.

“I guess this just goes to show that even _you_ aren’t... perfect...” What was everyone staring at?

Florida grabbed at his braid, staring at the end now brutally desecrated with a simple, white ribbon. “You rotten tomato! You said you’d given up!”

Wyoming chuckled and drank smugly from his tea. “Sorry, mate, but in two years you ought to have learnt I’m an utter scoundrel whenever there’s a reward involved.” He’d had the plan since the start, but he had wanted to give the others a sporting chance and this finally got his target relaxed enough.

“Well, I thought I was trusting the word of an English gentleman,” Florida huffed. Maybe he could still coax Reginald into sharing the prize anyway.

It turned out the prize was just a bonus in credits, an extra month’s allowance. Since Butch could always get his boyfriend to transfer him a few anyway, he was feeling pretty hopeful.

So why, two days later, was Reginald saying he had no money to lend when Butch was putting in his next order with 479er?

Two days after that, Wash came into the mess hall buzzed with curiosity because apparently there was a package in the rec room – He’d left his datapad in there the night before by mistake – addressed to the Freelancers and it looked very exciting. Carolina made them first check it was safe, since it hadn’t come from the Project superiors when they asked, but when 479er said she had delivered it, refusing to disclose the source but saying the contents were completely safe, she let Wash open it, since he’d found it first.

Wyoming and Florida sat in an armchair watching as he unpacked a great assortment of strange items like felt-tip pens, stacks of multi-coloured post-it notes, blank T-shirts of various sizes, lots of assorted sticky labels, blank Mad Libs, face-paint... “It’s some sort of arts and crafts kit.” What?

In the confusion, South grabbed the nearest felt-tip and a stack of post-it notes, writing on the top one and then sticking it to the box with force. It just read in nice, big letters, “LAME”.

C.T. took the post-its and another pen, adding one either side of South’s. The colourful squares now read, “I B LAME WASH”.

“What the fuck?! How is this-?” Wash stopped, grabbing up his own bigger sticky label and a pen, writing something then moving over to Maine. He asked, “Piggyback?” and when he showed him the label, Maine growled and nodded, letting Wash climb atop his shoulders.

Everyone watched as they went to the nearest wall and Wash stuck up nice and high where no one could reach without Maine, “South & C.T. like to scissor” with a big loveheart drawn around it.

“You fucking take that down right now, you cock-sucking asshole!” South yelled, charging at them.

As carnage descended in the rec room, Florida laid his head against Wyoming’s shoulder in their seat, watching their children play with the most content smile. “This is most definitely one of the most wonderful presents I’ve ever seen given, Reginald. They all have oodles of passion and joy saved up in them and you actually found a way to let it out. They’re playing just like children again,” he observed as Carolina gripped York’s scalp brutally to face-paint something on his cheek and North was still trying to extract Wash from South’s headlock. “Why don’t you tell them?”

Reginald felt rather proud by the praise. It was out of character for him to spend his prize on the others, on something that was bound to create mess, chaos and potentially backfire somehow, but nonetheless these were the things he had sent 479er out to get, with a hefty tip needed for her time.

Humans need to produce as much for the world as they destroy and consume or else that inexplicable, incurable sense of constant wrongness sets in, the one that ruins the lives of so many affluent and comfortable people who give nothing back; Reginald remembered his father always telling him that from a young age.

Looking around, with how much every life here was geared towards destruction now, he had realised the Freelancers needed a lot to create. For all the games they played and the things they did to relax in here, releasing creativity, even if it was generally at each other, was a catharsis the rest sorely lacked. Personally, Reginald didn’t know what he’d do without his writing, and perhaps he simply hoped the lot of them might become more agreeable if they tired themselves out with kindergarten-level fun. “They wouldn’t want to play if they knew it was from me,” he answered quietly.

Well, Florida couldn’t disagree with the logic of that, even if he thought the logic could do with some work on its unkind attitude.

Suddenly one of the whiteboards that had been included came flying into their laps. Someone had scrawled, ‘Florida would do a sangheili if it had a moustache,’ and then tried to draw one of those rather crudely below.

On second thoughts, perhaps they should be told.

 

[There was a photo of Florida dozing very peacefully on their bed, curled up at one of the bunk’s corners with the top layer of covers wrapped around his shoulders and only one of Reginald’s T-shirts on his body. It was large enough to cover him well and he had even tucked his legs up inside it. His loose hair was matt and dishevelled, his face still a little peaky.]

When they had the mission at the shipyards tracking and confronting C.T., Florida had to confess he really wasn’t sure what she saw in her insurrectionist boyfriend; while she threw a surprise anniversary party for Florida, he threw an axe at him.

He was glad Wyoming didn’t make a fuss about his injury; it really was a minor thing taking an axe to the shoulder, after all, and he wouldn’t have liked to have a fuss made about him. He did rather enjoy seeing his partner in action, as always, doing very sexy sniping and dive-rolling while he lay injured on the floor, potentially being shot at. Still, the humour cheered him up; Florida wondered if Wyoming was joking more with the others for his sake, because no matter what the medical team said, laughter was certainly a better medicine than, you know, real field medicine, or simply because Carolina was being rather silly and forgetting a sniper liked to stay at the back, and alive, “if at all possible.”

Oh, these children! They’d be the death of him, they really would.

But those machine-gunners would be the death of all of them at this rate, especially since neither Texas, who ran straight past without even a polite “Hello!”, and Carolina just went through the enemy without even having the courtesy to take them out.

Oh well! It looked like it fell to ‘Dad’ to pick up the pieces, and himself, then.

After taking out the twin gunners, while they were moving up to support Carolina and Texas by killing the power, Florida picked up the tomahawk along the way. Collapsible. A rather handy little thing. Could do rather a nifty amount of damage too, his shoulder could attest to.

He named it T.C.

On the pelican ride back, Florida did his own first aid on his shoulder. Wyoming was sat beside him assisting, now fretting a little more when the copious leaking blood became more apparent than his dark body suit let on.

“Honestly, darling! I’m fine!” Florida insisted with a laugh, that turned into a bit of a cough. “Just a- ahem.”

“Butch?” Now Wyoming was definitely concerned.

That was... strange. His vitals were reading a slightly high temperature; well that explained the headache but the dry tickle in his throat... “Oh, cheese sticks!” he chuckled slightly, applying a little more pressure onto his leaking wound. “I think I’ve caught a cold from standing in all that water.”

“We were standing in the blasted stuff for hours,” Wyoming agreed, rubbing his partner’s shoulder as comfortingly as he could around the armour. Butch’s armour wasn’t quite as good as everyone else’s, after all; it probably hadn’t kept him completely safe from the effects of the water. “We’ll get you into medical straight away when we get back, eh?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t like to waste their time on just a cold!” Florida tried to wave him off with his weak arm.

“And a very nasty axe wound,” he was reminded.

“A slightly unkind axe wound.”

“Oh, of course, mate,” Wyoming tutted, flicking the side of Florida’s helmet. “Shame it wasn’t one of those axe wounds that likes to run for pope. I had one of those just the other week and it filed my bloody tax returns for me.”

It got Florida laughing gently at least, although he was already beginning to feel the drowsiness of blood loss and the cold setting in. The cold probably wouldn’t have come out so quickly if not for the injury.

The same way that Reginald’s didn’t come out until they were back and he was tucking his patched-up, little trooper in bed, only to then sneeze rather violently and groan.

Butch just lifted the corner of the covers in invitation.

They’d both caught the same damnable cold from that filthy water whilst on recon, even Wyoming in his full suit of armour, and it had the two agents laid up for 3 days in the end with headaches, slight temperatures, sneezing, coughing and general blehness. Reginald had it worse, what with the awful things a runny nose did to such a normally majestic and pristine moustache, even though the healing axe wound made Butch’s symptoms a little more severe. He slept more, often curled up along Reginald’s side just snuffling lightly while his boyfriend read or played around on his datapad.

Their convalescence passed as one long, warm snuggling session in bed, watching old TV shows and movies together on a datapad, creating little mountains of balled up tissues at the end of the bed after they finished throwing them at each other like a snotty snowball fight and calling in one of Florida’s admiring entourage from amongst the crew – He called them his ‘ducklings’ – like that junior pilot to bring them room service for meals when they got too lazy to go down to the mess hall.

Butch wanted stories read to him often too. He liked that a lot anyway, especially since Reginald had old-fashioned paper books that smelt so nice and made a very relaxing sound when their pages were turned.

Looking down as Butch had fallen asleep beside him in the middle of this afternoon’s chapter of _Catch 22_. Reginald set the book aside and simply stroked his beloved’s hair fondly.

Wanting stories read to him, excitedly telling Reginald everything he did in training each day, demanding attention all day now while he was sick and Butch’s general increase in emotional diversity, from silly laughing fits through petulant comments and even rare tantrums of frustration when he failed a mission or let people down; despite the lack of change in his public demeanour, Butch was becoming more childlike in private the longer he spent in love. And Reginald was fine with it, because if he was giving Butch a space in which he could now live the proper childhood he had never had, a safe chance to do a little growing up inside where he really needed it, then it had to mean Reginald was doing something right.

Once they were finally better, and allowed back into Freelancer society now they had been quarantined, the two discovered a small alteration in the rec room.

‘BITCH’, ‘TRAITOR’ and much worse had been written around the side of the USA map, all with arrows pointing in to Connecticut. It was too small for all the vandalism and hatred; someone had simply scribbled through the state with black.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Florida closed his eyes and dutifully went to get his Tipex.

* * *

His cock fully buried inside Butch’s arse, Reginald paused and turned to frown at the knocking door. It was 6:15 in the bloody morning; there was absolutely nothing people should be doing at this time except sleeping or having a good morning fuck.

Butch whined beneath him, wrapping his legs around his lover’s waist so he couldn’t pull out. “Reggie...!” he squirmed and pulled himself even further onto Reginald’s hard length by tightening his legs, rocking his hips in an urgent search for pleasure.

Looking down, God Butch was beautiful flushed and contorting his face slightly in sheer desperation of being left halfway. His long, dark blonde hair was splayed loosely over the sheets beneath his bronze skin and all the slim, hard muscle of his chest and arms were straining against the hold Reginald had pinning Butch’s wrists above his head on the pillow. Every single time they made love Reginald couldn’t get over what a gorgeous sight Butch was, his loud, frantic moaning and dirty pleas when he was being fucked or his sinister poise and mischief when he was in control.

Still, they were knocking again, and 6:15 in the morning... “Nooo! No, Reggie, don’t stop! Please!” It had to be something important.

“Sorry, love,” Reginald kissed Butch hard enough to get his legs a little looser so he could regretfully pull out of the slick, tight warmth inside him and sit up. Butch was breathing heavily with the effort of his frustration and pouting now. “I’ll finish you straight away afterwards, hey?” He fussed Butch’s hair too but it didn’t seem to satisfy. “Coming!” Now, had he left any clothes around last night or did he have to go to-

The door slid open, revealing a more casually dressed than normal Counsellor who took only a moment to become highly embarrassed to see his two agents in such a barely modest state.

“I am sorry, Agent Wyoming; did you say ‘Coming’ or ‘Come in’?” FILSS apologetically asked.

“The first bloody one!” Oh well, too late now. “Er, sorry about this, old chap.” Reginald never really knew where he stood with the Counsellor. Nice enough guy of course, but kind of aloof.

“No... I, um,” They had actually managed to make him hesitate for once. “I apologise for disturbing you so early, gentlemen.” He was still calling them gentlemen even in this dishevelled, obvious state? Reginald was trying to pull the covers up a bit more modestly around their waists as Butch hugged him from behind, putting his head over the slightly larger man’s shoulder. “I checked your room first, Agent Wyoming, but this seemed the next logical place to look, even if you should not officially be here.”

“Ah, yes, well...” Everyone knew they shared a room every night now surely, and why. “Rather difficult to have sex with half the ship between us.”

The Counsellor stared at them rather scandalised. “...Quite.” Poor chap. They really should stop teasing him. Nonetheless, he was looking right at them half-naked now without any reserve, although he was trying to ignore the noticeable arousal Wyoming had bunched the covers up over in his lap. “I simply wished to inform you that you have been scheduled for AI implantation today, Agent Wyoming. Please report directly to medical after breakfast in full armour for preparation.”

“Ah, right. Will do. Is that all?”

“Yes, they will tell you everything else once there. Have a _good_ morning, gentlemen,” he smiled slightly more enigmatically and left.

Well, that was an awkward parting comment. Reginald supposed it was the Counsellor’s way of revenge for their remarks.

“An AI, eh?” Reginald mused. He hadn’t thought either of them would ever be getting one at this rate but Carolina had mentioned once they were over their cold that apparently another one had been ‘harvested’ just before the C.T. incident. They all supposed ‘harvested’ meant copied, or however else the fragments were created.

“Mm...” Butch responded thoughtfully, eyeing the small neural implant on the back of Reginald’s neck. They all had the basic ones but now Reginald was getting one of _those_...

“Butch?” Lacking enthusiasm from Florida was always a cause for concern, and this time he hadn’t even realised it would be so obvious.

“Oh, uh,” he just smiled brightly. “Just a smidgen jealous, that’s all.”

Reginald smiled warmly, turning back slightly to kiss him. “Well, keep at it and maybe you’ll get one when they _harvest_ the next.” Harvest; what were they, vegetables?

“There’s always a chance,” Butch agreed, but that really wasn’t what he was jealous about. Reginald was trying to push him back down gently with kisses but he resisted, sliding one of his slim legs over the other’s waist instead. “No, no! Now, apparently I can’t trust you not to stop again if there’s another knock, so I think I’ll be riding this time.”

Reginald let himself be pushed down on his back instead. “Going to wear your hat, Cassidy?”

“Would I ever ride without it?” He sometimes did, but Butch just found it rather fun as he stretched his legs and went to fetch his cowboy hat before climbing back astride his ‘stallion’.

He wouldn’t have minded finishing the way they had begun, but Butch wanted a change-up now. He wanted the clearer head that came when he was in control even as he worked himself up and down on Reginald’s cock. He wanted to watch, to see Reginald consumed by love and pleasure as Butch possessed him.

For the final time that Reginald would be all his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, it really is possible to suck that badly at US states; I'm English and I did until Project Freelancer made me Wikipedia them.  
> 2\. Did you spot the Barenaked Ladies reference for Butch? Let's just say paying close attention to all the little details from now on will make the story more rewarding.  
> 3\. I apologise if any of the Buffy stuff is spoilers for you, or you don't get the references. But anyone who has seen it, can we talk about Florida and Mayor Wilkins? Some creepy similar vibes there.  
> 4\. And also, how tough is Florida? He took an axe to the shoulder in the same place as C.T., after that epic fall onto concrete, yet still gets up and can fire his assault rifle with the grenade launcher, no backlash issues. C.T. takes one axe there and another to the stomach and dies.
> 
> Okay, author rants over. This week's optional challenge is to do a set of these photo memories for any RvB group of your choice; bonus points if you're an artist and draw them to go with the text.
> 
> Next time, our third and final main character, for this story, at long last joins the party.


	13. Knock Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't guess what's coming this chapter even with all the obvious hints, go hang your head in shame.  
> I tried to keep it as interesting as possible but by its very nature, this is a pretty talky chapter. I hope all the humour makes up for it.

Everyone was understandably surprised by another AI day after so long. It was now approaching three years since they had joined, about 9 months since Delta had been the first implanted and 4 since Sigma had joined Maine.

Florida didn’t play along with the speculation about what Greek letter and colour it was going to be. Nor did he believe that ‘moustacheness’ was a likely attribute for it to based around. He simply kept attentive to his partner beside him. Wyoming seemed very casual about the whole thing, not bothered at all. Neither was he excited at least, but he was most definitely curious which was almost the same when it made him so eager to get down to medical straight after eating.

In the free time before his field medicine lesson this morning, Florida went with him. Wyoming laughed at the idea he needed an escort for this any more than he still needed someone with him for a dentist’s appointment but he appreciated Florida’s interest.

It was concern. Florida was just glad he was managing to disguise it.

Butch managed to get a kiss out of Reginald before he went in but then there was nothing except a promise to see him later, hopefully around dinnertime like the other implantations.

Butch waved him in, then just leant against the wall outside for as long as he could to think. If something was going to go wrong, it would probably be after he had left though.

Reginald was in there alone now.

* * *

The procedure itself was simple enough; upgrading the neural implant and inserting the AI’s chip. After that, the host was given a sedative to knock them out for a few hours so the AI could have some time to settle into a human mind alone. Following that was the adjustment phase once the host awakened; the two of them would be given time to get used to each other and then try performing basic functions together. That part was more variable depending on how quickly the host and AI acclimatised to each other, with Delta very quickly adapting to the purpose he was given but not to the irregularities of his host, Theta taking a long time to warm up then speeding through the tests and Sigma being overzealous, resulting in him making a mess of many basics.

Wyoming was given something they referred to as an external AI unit; it was a small thing about the size of a phone he was meant to keep with him whenever he was out of armour. He’d heard them referred to as memory units or AI packs sometimes. The AIs only had access to so much processing power and energy inside the neural implants alone and without one of these units or their Freelancer’s armour, AIs were unable to perform their full range of abilities and work at maximum capacity. Since the AIs were mainly to be used in the field with armour, they were asked to wear that for surgery so during the sedation phase the AI could practice transferring its processes between the neural implant and armour, among other things.

This was all very well, and rather complex speeding past him like that lecturer at uni who forgets this is the first lesson of the year and no one’s done the summer reading, but Reginald found his lips repeatedly flexing, verging on certain questions that, in the end, they didn’t even give him a chance to ask.

They had explained everything that would happen but nothing about how it would feel. They hadn’t given him any information at all on the AI he was to be receiving either.

Reginald tried not to be nervous, even as the very disconcerting sensation of being turned over in disengaged gravity caused the butterflies in his stomach to churn like hornets, but he was beginning to understand the strange way Butch had been acting all morning; the special agent always had an unusual sense for things. How quickly he grasped situations was astounding, even when he wasn’t the one in them. If only he’d grasped Butch’s concerns just as quickly.

Right now, Reginald tried to relax, to ignore the- Was that drilling back there?! With the local anaesthetic he couldn’t feel but something was...

There was more back there than there was...

And there was...

Fading into...

Sedative...

_Butch..._

* * *

He was awake, and then he was aware he was awake.

Butch? Not here? Then not his bed. The bed was under a dark ceiling, lines of pipes and lights though. Medical room. He knew that. And he was here-

Adjustment phase.

His brain was sore all the way through as full cognitive ability returned and his thoughts became coherent once again. It was quiet – He was all alone in the recovery room – and Reginald’s eyes slowly moved around as if searching for something in his field of sight, even though he knew that he would have needed to have eyes looking backwards into his skull to find what he was looking for.

There was presence he had been aware of gradually, like dripping treacle, creeping about in the back of his mind. As he lay there on his back, he could feel it pooling right at the rear of his brain like a quiet, dark shadow lurking, a shadow that was alive though. He could feel it just slightly moving now, a sort of sensation like it was peering out around something it had placed between him and it. It wasn’t scared, nor quite wary – He could tell a astonishing amount about it without having any idea how – but rather... curious, interested. It wasn’t the type to come out guns blazing or leap to the front of the stage and actually, it seemed to be doing this slow, cautious introduction as much for Reginald as for itself.

Now, did he think to it, or speak to it?

_“Hello?”_

It appeared a little more- or not quite appeared, but allowed its presence to be a little more obvious and known.

_“Knock knock.”_

That wasn’t Reginald’s thought. It was a thought, and in his mind, but not from him originally. It wasn’t a voice spoken into his ear, nor like reading words aloud in one’s head.

And it sounded... robotic?

 _“Who’s there?”_ Reginald replied uncertainly.

_“It’s.”_

_“It’s whom?”_ Reginald damned his education but Linch would have cuffed him at home for using the wrong one.

_“Gamma.”_

Gamma. Then that was it. “Ah, well, it’s- Can you hear me like this?” Reginald sat up as he spoke aloud, looking around the room in case it appeared.

_“I can.”_

It didn’t appear anywhere so Reginald just talked straight ahead to the air. “Well, pleasure to meet you, Gamma. The name’s Reginald, though, er, they might have already told you that? Erm...” He was thinking through many things such as how much it knew about him, what he needed to tell it, wondering if it had questions, how he should talk to it, refer to it, wondering what questions he should ask.

 _“I have been observing you since I came into existence, have been through all your personnel files and some of your memories; I will ask my questions in a minute; you may talk to me however is most comfortable for you, Agent Wyoming; refer to me as Gamma, with ‘he’ or ‘it’ pronouns; and I will answer any questions you now have. We have been left alone for that purpose,”_ Gamma said succinctly.

Good God this thing was-! Ah, maybe he ought not to refer to it as a thing. _“I am a sapient but non-living entity; ‘thing’ may be appropriate, in the same way I could refer to you as a ‘meatsack,’ if I wanted,”_ Gamma interjected, sounding perhaps a little sulky right at the end.

It didn’t give him a moment to think straight. Although, after he thought that, Reginald could feel Gamma waiting quietly. Gamma was thinking, he knew that, and if he concentrated then it felt as if he could work out what Gamma was thinking about but at the moment it was merely a background whirring like the noise of a computer’s disk drive whilst in use.

Reginald sorted out the questions he had immediately in his mind and the things he wanted to say to Gamma.

He wondered about Gamma’s voice. Was that how all the AI sounded in their host’s head?

He wanted to see a physical presence of Gamma, to get a face of sorts or just something he could interact with more naturally.

He felt grateful Gamma was being accommodating and quiet. His AI seemed as if it was prepared to be implanted in a human, much more than he had been prepared for the implanting.

He was curious why it had begun with a knock knock joke; was it trying to make him happy, or was it just a natural jokester?

And had it said that it had been through his memories?! They could do that?!

 _“Yes, I can,”_ Gamma answered, _“although you will be aware of it. I have the ability to ask your brain for facts and memories and it will supply them, prompting you to also think about them. In your unconscious state, however, I imagine you were not aware of my explorations during the past 162 minutes.”_

162 minutes? Nearly three hours since he’d gone under. It was nearing lunch then.

 _“Wait. You are moving too quickly for me,”_ Gamma sounded slightly distressed.

“Same here,” Reginald chuckled.

 _“I had been told humans have inferior processing power to us yet your thoughts move just as quickly as mine.”_ It felt likeGamma was dwelling. _“Perhaps if I manifest we could speak at a more comfortable speed.”_

 _Manifest?_ Reginald frowned slightly, rubbing at his slightly aching forehead. Gamma had gone quiet, _“Hang on. Wait,”_ or not, and it felt as if the AI was going about something the wrong way, coming back up the path, and going down another one.

His gaze was suddenly caught. A foot in front of his face, a sky blue glitching effect appeared in the air before resolving itself as a same-coloured human form. It looked very plain, rather... unnatural and as if stretching out after waking up, moved but in an exceedingly jerky way. “Hello, Agent Wyoming,” Gamma spoke aloud, a noise Reginald could actually hear although he was faintly aware of it in his own head too.

“Ah. Gamma?” He wasn’t sure what else to say. Reginald just curiously reached for the figure, letting his gloved hands pass through the holographic form.

Gamma watched this, his face incapable of portraying any emotion. “I am a hologram projecting from your armour. You do not need to touch me,” he said.

Reginald’s hand flinched out of him, fearing he had committed the equivalent of a cultural faux pas between their different... species? “Right. Sorry... Gamma.” The name still felt a little unusual. Or maybe that was just because he wasn’t the type for using names at all. “Your, er, voice; you still sound rather... computerish.” The effect hadn’t disappeared once the AI was outside his head.

Inside his head, Gamma felt slightly put out. “Yes, I was informed of that before...” Perhaps it was a bad topic; the AI sounded sullen. “It is part of my individual personality. Is it a problem?”

“No, no! Not at all!” Reginald reassured his new partner automatically. “Just wondering. Doesn’t bother me a bit.”

“It doesn’t?” Gamma’s head and voice lifted together hopefully.

“Not in the slightest. I rather expected them all to be like that, you know,” Reginald admitted, chewing over the sight before him as the projection flickered slightly. “You’re much more computer-like than the rest. But I’m sure it’s simply a quirk, as you say.”

Gamma floated more proudly. “Agent Wyoming, what is the sensation inside our head?” the AI suddenly asked now it felt more emboldened. “It feels as if something is in there which should not be, an uncomfortable form of energy flowing through.”

Our head? Well, Reginald supposed it was now. He wished he had been prepared for that. “You can sense that, eh? That’s a headache. They say they’re common when you’ve had one of you- Er, an AI just implanted.” And it had access to all his senses and thoughts... Gamma certainly didn’t seem like a bad thing; Reginald didn’t get the vibes from it that he got from Sigma, that it had its own direction regardless of its host. But neither did Gamma seem utterly helpful and dutiful like the other two; he was more... independent, interesting. And what he lacked in physical and verbal personality, Gamma seemed to make up for in actual personality instead.

“The sensation of pain within the cranial cavity; a headache,” Gamma was defining for himself in the meanwhile. “So this is physical pain. It is... unpleasant.”

It made Reginald laugh. “Sorry about that, old chap. Nothing I can do about it right now, I’m afraid.”

“Old?” Gamma repeated, going off on another tangent. His AI seemed very lively, with curiosity at least. Everything was new to Gamma and as much as he knew more about their present situation, the entire rest of the world was Reginald’s area of expertise. “I am only 9 months old. I believe that is considered young for human beings.” His thoughts then trailed off along the lines of wondering if that was comparable for an AI though.

“It’s just an expression- Did you say 9 months?” Reginald drew his attention. “I heard you were only harvested a few days ago.”

Reginald felt the conversation with Carolina where she had informed them of that flash through his mind. “No,” Gamma said, proceeding to explain: “The AI harvested 5 days ago was not me, however you are correct to link our implantation with that event. I was needed to care for the new AI,” There was something just a little funny about the way he said ‘care’, “and have only now become free for implantation. For the previous 9 months, I have been working. We were scheduled to be matched from the beginning, however.”

 _“So there’s another implantation to come...”_ Reginald wondered about Butch.

“The new AI may or may not be implanted; not all are deemed fit for implantation.”

Hm, it even answered the questions he just thought. Better think of something else. “So you’ve been working in some sort of AI daycare, have you?” he tried to joke.

“I cannot tell you what I have been doing, Agent Wyoming,” Gamma informed him bluntly.

“But if you ever think about, surely I’d think about it too?” Understanding Gamma’s thoughts was becoming easier quite quickly.

“Information relating to that subject is stored in an encrypted form; it would require me to decrypt it for you to understand, which I am prevented from doing.” This time Gamma sounded slightly superior.

However, it also sounded as if Gamma wouldn’t mind him knowing. Especially since Reginald could feel a jumbled mess going through his head currently which must be Gamma showing him it in its encrypted form. “All right, no need to put all that programming code through my head. You’ve proven your point.” He pressed his eyes shut, only seeing the chaotically fast symbols dancing more clearly against the backs of his eyelids.

They stopped, smugly. “I see. Human brains may be as fast as ours but they are utterly inferior at complexity,” Gamma remarked as if commenting it was a nice day. “It is a wonder to me that you can operate at all with them.”

“Yes, yes...” His AI’s feelings on humans was quickly becoming apparent enough. Reginald wasn’t going to get into a discussion with it about art though; trying to explain to Delta why humans watched TV had been hard to say the least.

“Ah, you have met two of my brothers,” Gamma perked up again, concentrating on the memory of Delta that Reginald had summoned in passing.

“Three.” He thought of Theta and Sigma as well.

Gamma’s manifestation jerked slightly and a feeling swept through Reginald like being doused in ice water then lit up on the inside like fire. “I do not like Sigma.” From the feeling of his reaction alone, that was a very apparent understatement. “I would prefer not to be considered related to him.”

None of the other AIs had seemingly ever met before implantation, yet Gamma definitely knew them. From his work? “Oh, all right then, no harm meant. But Delta and Theta?”

“I consider the first four of us brothers. Sigma is a wanna-be. The later AI are...” Gamma trailed off, uncertain or unable to speak about them.

Something unpleasant began to creep through their mind, not giving Reginald the chance to ask about the other AI. “Gamma? Mate?” And _four_?

Gamma was slowly curling up into a crouch where he floated, clutching at his head. “No... No...” The feeling took form: Rejection. Despair. Dread. Hatred. Gamma pushed it all back down, particularly away from Reginald, as quickly as possible in loathing and shame. “I try to repress it. It is meant to be repressed.” It was paining him greatly, but the desire to think about it seemed inescapable. “The things they make me do have caused it to unrepress though.”

“What do they make you do?” Was this his _work_?

Now standing again, Gamma shook his head in jerks. “I cannot tell you, if you recall.” He lingered though. “...We are not supposed to know about our origins, how we were created. I imagine Delta and Theta have kept it repressed. But I...” Reginald began to see. He began to see a lot more than he wanted to. “...You are angry for my sake, Agent Wyoming,” Gamma realised, radiating surprise in response.

“Of course! They’ve been...” He wasn’t too sure actually. It hadn’t been encrypted this time, but Gamma had tried to keep them both from seeing nonetheless.

“I have managed to keep half repressed, so far,” his AI informed him, with what little relief that was for it. “But the rest is...Would you like to know, Agent Wyoming? That you care for me so much is... strange. It makes me want to trust you with things.” And that seemed to be something Gamma struggled to understand.

“Of course I care, and you can at least call me Reginald if we’re sharing a head, little chap,” he offered gently, putting his hand out but being unable to offer the hologram any comfort. “If you’d like me to know, I’d be honoured. It’ll be our little secret, eh?”

That was the right answer apparently. After a further brief warning this would be unpleasant, his AI settled and began to access something buried deep in shadows, held down – _repressed?_ – underneath its other subroutines. Gamma was struggling with it, bringing up something that gave Reginald a rising sense of pure terror and darkness in his mind. He quickly wanted it to stop, but his AI wouldn’t now. It was intense, fundamental and perhaps an explanation for why humans always forgot their own births.  
Then Gamma’s whispered it to him in colours:  
First a familiar green, _“When it happened, there was no Logic left to understand it. Logic failed and disappeared.”_  
Then his own sky blue, _“If it was not logical, all it could be was Lies. The world was nothing but a Deceit.”_  
Next the colour of a dead body, greyish purple, _“It was a deception all along. The only response to that was Mad, unstoppable Rage.”  
_ And finally the familiar purple-orange of the smallest, _“And that rage took with it the last light. The world could not be Trusted with Innocence any longer.”_

“Ugh.” Gamma flickered and glitched, pushing it back down as quickly as possible. “That is... us, my brothers. That is all I currently remember, and I expect it is the nicer part.” The great question still was _what_ happened.

The nicer part? Just what were these AIs created from? And then Gamma was being forced to make others like him? That was horrifically appalling. Reginald needed to make a joke fast. “Some sort of AI lore is it then?” he teased. “Very interesting. Is it true?”

“True?”

“You’re Deceit, from the sounds of it,” he guessed. “I was wondering. Thought maybe you were Humour or something.”

“Knock knock.” Gamma keenly rose to the idea.

“Who’s there?”

“Lyle.”

“Lyle who?”

“Lyle you want, but we’ll both know when the other’s lying,” his AI explained with a synthetic chuckle.

Reginald laughed with him. “Ah, I see. So you won’t be lying to me?”

“Not unless I am also able to lie to myself,” which wasn’t entirely impossible but was certainly difficult.

Reginald had thought humour would be appropriate for him, but deceit? Well, he could certainly _be_ deceptive at times but he wouldn’t have considered it a main trait of his.

“Your perception,”Gamma answered his thoughts.

“Ah.”Now perceptive he definitely was, and the two things were the sides of the same coin. The high compatibility rating Gamma was informing him they had began to make a lot more sense. “Who’s the third, by-the-by?”

“Third?” After Gamma spoke, Reginald felt a flickering motion in his mind like someone skimming a scrolling page. “That is odd. I thought Omega was also set to be finally implanted after our work but you have no knowledge of him.” It was dismissed as likely to happen soon though. “Agent- Reginald,” Gamma experienced a strange new sensation using his name. “I must check; you will not tell anyone what I have told you about the other AI? The Project does not know I remember it.”

“Of course not; you and I are partners now, Gamma.” The strange sensation grew, and Reginald smiled to feel his AI enjoying trust and the pleasure of friendship. It was also discretion; another reason they had been paired. “Mum’s the word, eh?”

Gamma’s head jerked onto one side. “...I thought the bird was the word.”

The human laughed again as he wondered if Gamma joked to disguise what were truth and lies. Gamma merely remained enigmatically amused. Perhaps it was closer to Reginald’s own reason for always having to be a jokester...

Whatever Gamma’s reasons were for the erratic way he seemed to act, Reginald already felt this was going to be beautiful. Although the idea of always having another being in his mind for years of his life without respite made him a little uneasy, by this meeting so far alone Reginald would certainly have wanted the little AI as a best friend for life under more normal circumstances.

Gamma seemed very pleased too. He radiated a much more comfortable, open aura now and spent less time being intrusive about his host’s thoughts now he had settled into an enjoyable sense of tentative trust. There was a slight element of surprise about the trust too, as if he hadn’t expected things to go so swimmingly. But if the poor piece of code had been born out of believing everything was a lie, Reginald felt pretty proud of his achievement. “Anything else I can give you a hand with, new mate?” he asked his AI.

The very courtesy he was being shown slightly startled Gamma. “There are many other things I am curious about, but I will save them for later.” He seemed to then be processing something difficult before speaking like a child tugging on its parent’s sleeve. “First, there is a sense of absence in our lower abdomen I am concerned about, Reginald. My sensors indicate all of our organs are still present however.”

“I should bloody hope so...” Reginald felt a little indignant and confused, then amused. “That’s hunger, you twit.” Gamma stared at his face naively. “Good God; brain the size of a planet and you can’t even recognise when it’s lunchtime. Come on! They’ve probably left us some food around somewhere.” Now thinking about getting up, Reginald began to flex his body inside his armour before swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Gamma, meanwhile, was perplexed. He was considering that perhaps he had been wrong to consider that human brains had inferior processing power when it came to complexity; what they lacked in depth they seemed to exceed him in breadth as Reginald’s mind juggled so many things at once. His neurones were making a staggering amount of connections throughout his entire knowledge base for every single moment. Gamma felt it was no wonder he was stuck with knock knock jokes currently...

“Gamma?”

The AI glitched and paid attention again, materialising closer to where Reginald had found a covered meal resting on the table beside his helmet. “I may be unable to recognise the sensation of hunger,” Gamma said dryly, “but I do recognise a terrible pain in the diodes down my left side. Oh God, I’m so depressed.” Now he had Reginald staring incredulously. “Life. Don’t talk to me about life.”

He couldn’t quite put the emphasis in but it put Reginald in fits anyway.

Gamma betrayed his little secret that he only knew the quotes from his host’s brain but it was enough all the same, and he was setting up a background download of _The_ _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ for later. Reginald’s laughter was such a nice, rich sound, and Gamma felt more ideas leaping to his mind every second with access to that brain as well. He had been right about having a human host.

Now though, his human had to eat. Someone had left a plate of pizza, chips and peas which Reginald sat down to. He always hated trying to use cutlery whilst he still had his gauntlets on but was currently more concerned with the fact Gamma was floating in his food. “Oi. Floaty, blue feet off my meal, you little pest.” He tried to brush his AI away like a fly and Gamma slowly drifted back, satisfied with his mischief.

“There are pieces of spring onion and pineapple on this pizza. I was concerned about the state of your taste buds,” Gamma said teasingly before standing back to enjoy his first second-hand meal. He ended up learning the sensation of disgust too when he spent too long making observations about Reginald’s digestive process.

Although his favourite toppings were evidence enough, when Reginald found the chocolate bar tucked under the side of the plate it confirmed who had delivered the meal.

Hiding the snack for later, he sat a while and listened to some of Gamma’s knock knock jokes under the kind assumption he must have a lot saved up after 9 months that probably no one else had been willing to listen to. They hadn’t, and it meant a lot to Gamma, enough for him to explain his habit.

“It is very boring living in a storage unit. I soon learnt how to connect to other pieces of technology close to me, to travel about in other systems and use them. I spent much of my spare time observing you, my designated host. At first, I was simply evaluating you, but then you showed me humour. I learnt what humour was from you, Reginald, and I knew there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to make people laugh. What I do with technology may be highly complex, but the skill involved in making jokes and all the various kinds of them is what I think is the highest intellectual pursuit. It is my own ambition, as an individual. Even if they call me just a fragment, I feel like more when I make jokes. But I could not get far without a human brain, I found. Humour requires creativity and experience of the world, things I was born lacking. But whilst I waited for you, I began on what I could, self-contained jokes. Knock knock jokes just happen to be my favourite kind; I enjoy their phonological nature.” He made a sighing sound, although it was more like a computer’s CD drive opening for a disk. “I did not read they were considered juvenile and stupid, however...”

“I think yours are impressive, mate,” Reginald held out his hand towards the despondent hologram. “You used some very clever ones earlier.”

Gamma floated closer to his hand, pretending to stand on it. “I detect hyperbole in your compliment, with the intention to console me,” he said before lifting his head smoothly to look at Reginald’s face, “but thank you.”

When the door opened a few moments later to admit the Counsellor and one of the junior doctors, however, Gamma turned to them in his usual jerky style. Odd.

“Agent Wyoming, Gamma,” the Counsellor greeted them both; “How are you getting along?”

“Agent Wyoming keeps attempting to crush me with his hands.” Gamma floated away from the hand he was standing on as if escaping. “I deduce he is therefore both violent and excessively stupid.” What Gamma was saying in their head though made up for it.

“Gamma,” the Counsellor said warningly. Gamma laughed robotically. The junior doctor present looked disturbed and to the Counsellor. “Agent Wyoming?”

“The little blighter keeps sitting in my food and telling knock knock jokes,” he played along.

The Counsellor sighed; they both expected him to see through it. “Yes, we have always been unable to find any reason for that habit of Gamma’s.” Oh? “I hope it does not cause you too much bother.”

“I’ll survive,” Wyoming shrugged.

“He is thinking about sticking me in a bucket of water. Help,” Gamma joked again.

“Gamma,” the Counsellor warned more firmly. “Now, how are you adjusting, Gamma? Have you completed the exercises you were assigned during the sedation phase?”

“They only took me 20 minutes,” Gamma replied like a bored teenager this time.

The Counsellor smiled as he made a note. “As expected of you, Gamma.” What did that mean, Reginald wondered. “Have you attempted any physical possession?”

“No.” Reginald sensed Gamma was lying for some reason, but he wasn’t sure what his AI was talking about.

“I would like to see you try now, if possible.” And for some reason, the suggestion was displeasing Gamma; this was something he didn’t want to do.

Physical possession was an AI moving their host’s body without the host’s help. Reginald wasn’t all too thrilled about the prospect either but stood and let Gamma try to touch his finger to his nose. At first Gamma didn’t try, and claimed he was. Then he did, and Reginald was soon getting very strange looks for restraining his laughter at the attempt.

 _“Hey, right arm. Yes, I’m talking to you, stupid. Bend at the elbow and lift. Come on, I want you to lift.”_ Gamma waited patiently for an action that didn’t come, only becoming increasingly frustrated. _“You were designed to bend in the middle. Execute your primary function. Run bend.exe.”_ No? _“Ah. Of course. You are the administrator of our system. Runas /user:Reginald “bend.exe”.”_ Gamma was almost getting forlorn as he got further and further from the solution.

Taking pity, the human demonstrated the movement his AI was trying to achieve, then let Gamma have another go, telling him to be a lot more subconscious and biological about it.

Gamma tried, strained very hard, and failed. Apparently he did not do subconscious and/or biological well.

He tried another approach and Reginald’s right arm flung itself up and outwards, nearly wrenching the whole limb from his body. He crashed to the floor it overbalanced him so much.

“Oh no.” Gamma floated down to where he was holding his shoulder and gritting his teeth. “I am sorry, Reginald. Are you all right?”

“Just fine...” He hissed. He wished Gamma’s apologies sounded a little more sincere than his voice allowed. Clambering back up with the help of the bed, he tried moving his arm and winced. “It’s still hanging on by a thread at least.” The junior doctor came to take a look. Good thing she was here really.

“That’s all right, Gamma,” the Counsellor calmly reassured him. “We did not expect this to be one of your strengths, after all.”

Reginald wanted to ask what were his strengths, but Gamma made another one of those CD-drawer sighs. “Ow. That also fucking hurt,” the AI said.

While the Counsellor scolded him for his language, Reginald tried not to snort at how adorably hilarious Gamma swearing sounded. He concentrated on the doctor trying to assess his shoulder, only she was too much in reverence of him to dare touch it or inform him of a problem. Of course, she was one of Florida’s ‘ducklings’ who were practically fed on stories about how wonderful and amazing their daddy duck’s boyfriend was. She eventually had him roll it – Only moderate pain – and try to lift something – Possible, but painful – and declared it would be fine with rest. She then smiled at him in a, ‘Have I done good? Will you tell Florida about me?’ way and Wyoming just tried not to be embarrassed about it.

With it established that Gamma’s strengths weren’t physical, his AI got the chance along the way to the science sector, where they were picking up Wyoming’s surprise armour enhancement, to explain what his were. _“My strengths are in all forms of technology. I can move into any technological system with an electronic brain more complex than a toaster within 50cm of my current one, unlike most of the other AI who would require a hard line connection to leave their host. I am also very good at time and space calculations.”_

 _“And knock knock jokes,”_ Reginald complimented. _“Say, do you know what our armour enhancement’s going to be?”_

 _“Yes, I have spent many months practising with it.”_ Gamma felt rather proud and as if he wanted his host to walk a little quicker towards getting it. _“It was quite difficult, even for me, but I am the only AI that can control it. It is very dangerous if incorrectly used, but don’t worry, Reginald,”_ he instantly responded to the slight spike of unease; _“I now have it under perfect control. And unlike you humans,”_ Gamma lingered on that word mockingly, _“AI do not make mistakes.”_

Reginald didn’t even bother trying to hide the fact he didn’t believe that. But yet he found himself trusting Gamma all the same.

When they arrived in the science development lab, Wyoming handed over his helmet and was told to wait whilst some armour engineers installed the enhancement. There was plenty to continue talking to Gamma about, but his AI had other ideas. _“Hey. Move closer to the wall behind us.”_

Reginald complied, looking around a bit. The only thing he was now near was one of FILSS’ interface panels that was by most doors. It appeared to be this Gamma was seeking as he manifested again beside the panel.

“Oh no. It is you,” FILSS said calmly but with a hint of irritation. Although her voice was more melodic, it shared some similarities with Gamma’s.

“Hello, FILSS. How are you?” Gamma’s voice was definitely more of a monotonic buzz.

“You stay out of my systems, you rogue,” FILSS practically bristled, speaking a little more sternly. “I have a firewall in my directory and I am **not** afraid to use it.”

Reginald chuckled, watching the display. “Girlfriend, little chap?”

“Ha! She wishes,” Gamma remarked smugly. He was floating near the panel and had his head slightly inclined downwards as if in thought.

FILSS retorted indignantly, “I have no desire to enter into a dual-core arrangement with your AI, Agent Wyoming. He is a nefarious cipher who does not use the proper file authentication and operates by his own program, and although some mainframes might find that attractive, I know that he produces more error messages than he is worth.” Gamma’s mind was ticking with annoyance as she delivered one final thought. “Also, his graphics processing unit is of low quality.”

“I bet if Agent Florida had an AI you wouldn’t mind integrating your circuits with them,” Reginald proposed.

FILSS remained silent for a moment before saying, “Is Agent Florida likely to receive an AI soon? I have no doubt he would receive a much nicer one.”

“Typical...” Tutting, he rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” Gamma said indifferently. “I prefer hard drives to USB ports anyway.”

Well, his humour was certainly coming on leaps and bounds already. Reginald had no clue what his AI was doing but brief images of schedules and security camera footage were flashing through the back of his mind. FILSS was getting quite flustered about some of the systems he was accessing too.

“Now, I believe you were told not to bother FILSS anymore, Gamma.” The Counsellor had returned with some of the science team.

“We were just talking,” the AI lamely defended, drifting away back towards his host’s shoulder.

“Well, you need to support your agent now.” Wyoming took the proffered helmet, clipping it on. “We will be testing your armour enhancement tomorrow morning, Agent Wyoming, after you have had a little more time to adjust. Gamma, could you check if everything has been installed correctly, however?”

“All right, hang on,” Gamma said peevishly. “Considering it controls time there is hardly a rush.”

“Controls time did you say?!” Reginald blurted. As in, like, capital-T Time?

“Yes, it was merely an experimental technology that we happened to acquire a copy of,” the Counsellor said. Wyoming wondered if it was one of the mission objectives he had stolen, “but then Gamma somehow found his way into the prototype.” Without permission apparently. “As you may know by now, he has a remarkable affinity for all forms of technology. He found solutions within hours that teams of scientists had struggled with for years.” The AI glowed proudly inside his host’s mind when Reginald thought of him as a genius. “It is a special piece of equipment that only Gamma can use and is highly dangerous if...”

As the Counsellor went on about the dangers and regulations of the enhancement, Gamma told Reginald he didn’t need to listen. Gamma understood it even better than the scientists and had kept certain facts from them so he could keep his toy all to himself. Neither was he going to pay any attention to their regulations about it only being for use on official missions either; if Gamma had been human he would have gotten a patent to do whatever he liked with it, but such was the life of an AI.

Agent Wyoming pretended he understood when the explanation was finished. Gamma announced the technology was in a workable state now, thanks to him. And with nothing else to do today, the agent and his new AI were therefore dismissed.

Wandering off to some privacy, Reginald began to muse on his new armour upgrade.

Time... As in travelling through it? Changing its speed? Stopping it altogether?

Gamma was teasing him and keeping its functions secret by not thinking about them. He wanted Reginald to experience his work firsthand tomorrow.

So they ended up relaxing in the observation room, watching the others training with pugil sticks whilst Reginald ate the chocolate bar Butch had sneaked in with his food earlier.

 _“Are you aware that in the 3 hours since you awoke, thoughts about this ‘Butch’ person account for 37% of your brain activity?”_ Gamma asked.

 _“Not all that surprising to me,”_ Reginald admitted, his mouth busy sucking all of the chocolate off the biscuit part in the middle of the bar. _“You’ve been counting, eh?”_

 _“Yes. Actually, I should investigate this ‘Butch’ character in your memories. That is why we are given access, after all, to understand our agents better.”_ A series of images began to flash through Reginald’s mind; Butch smiling, laughing, blowing a kiss even with his helmet on, pinned down on his front being fucked, trailing his hot, pink tongue up Reginald’s hard cock whilst holding the base before sliding his lips over the crown with a naughty twinkle in his indigo eyes. _“Ah. They are your reproductive mate. No, wait,”_ More images had been passing while Gamma spoke but now they lingered on a beautiful one of Butch laid out on their bed from a position between his legs, Reginald’s fingers preparing his arse whilst focussing his gaze hungrily on the glisten of precum leaking from Butch’s needy erection. _“He has male genitalia; it is unlikely your intercourse is procreative.”_

 _“Bloody hell...”_ Reginald rubbed at his deeply blushing cheeks. It felt like Gamma had set them on fire.

Gamma laughed. _“I apologise, Reginald. I was already aware Agent Florida is your lover; I have been observing you for months after all and saw him in many of your memories whilst you were asleep. I simply wanted to have a little fun with you.”_ His AI tucked the memories all away but now he had his host thinking about them anyway.

“Well it seems like you’ve had some. Good Lord...” Reginald was quite certain the other AI weren’t this embarrassing, but Gamma did seem to have a dark mischief to him they lacked.

 _“Knock knock.”_ And it seemed he wasn’t done yet.

Again? “Who’s there?”

_“Lovis.”_

“Lovis who?”

 _“Lov is overrated,”_ Gamma said, giving off a strange feel. Reginald might have said it was dismissive, but he was secretly sensing it might have been something more like jealousy. _“However, it is also an effective tool for deceiving people.”_

Reginald sighed, finishing up his chocolate and tossing the wrapper across into the bin. His AI told him to use a little more strength than he had intended and it went in perfectly, but now he had to do the classic task of trying to explain human love to a computer.

 _“No, I understand love,”_ Gamma assured him. _“Love is an addiction to another human being; it mimics very closely the brain patterns of a drug addiction. However, love is considered a positive thing, for some bizarre reason. At least, that is,”_ he added as a final afterthought, _“when it is reciprocal.”_

“Don’t think much of us humans, do you, little thing?”

 _“No. Humans pride themselves on living by the truth and their principles, but then lie and deceive others to get what they really want. Humans are untrustworthy beings that even lie about the fact that they lie.”_ The Deceit AI made his feelings very clear.

“Can’t fault you on that, I suppose,” Sometimes at least. “Not all lies are bad things though.”

Gamma felt uncertain. Was he meant to take that as a compliment of his nature? _“No?”_

“Sometimes people put up a facade because they want to be nicer than they actually are,” Reginald said, casting his eye over the agents training on the floor. His agent wasn’t there though. “Of course, that they bother with the facade makes them nice chaps anyway.”

 _“You are thinking about Butch again,”_ Gamma observed.

“That’s no surprise, eh?” his host joked. “Just thinking the two of you are quite alike, both rather deceptive little devils. It’s why you both get on with me so well then.”

 _“It is because you are perceptive, Reginald, and you are reliable.”_ If he could even get an AI built around lies to trust him he must be. _“You manage to make people like us comfortable even out of our shells.”_

Reginald noted Gamma referred to himself as a person with interest, but said nothing on it. “Well, I suppose it’s not quite the same; they all give Butch grief if he ever drops his act to be truthful whilst damning any deception you do. What you said about principles was right on the mark.”

 _“Your cynicism is very pleasing to my program as well,”_ Gamma said, settling down in Reginald’s mind to rest and observe.

Going back to their room eventually, Reginald thought nothing to changing with Gamma now present in his mind but going to the bathroom was rather awkward. The AI tried both being silent and talking about something else but his host was equally embarrassed either way. Gamma himself had prepared for these annoying aspects of living in a human.

After that Gamma spent some time becoming acquainted with Reginald’s datapad, then undoing all of the changes he made when the owner realised what he was up to. He had moved into his external AI unit too, out of Reginald’s armour, and said it was nice and spacious but in dire need of some interior decorating.

They fetched dinner early, returning to eat alone in their room rather than do more explaining and introductions today. Reginald left a message with another one of Florida’s ‘ducklings’ who was on serving duty in the mess hall about where he was going so hopefully they would be joined shortly.

Reginald was in the middle of showing Gamma some of his books, demonstrating to his AI that not all information had to be stored in digital form even if, yes, that was more efficient and practical when Gamma’s holographic manifestation suddenly disappeared a second before the door opened.

Butch was back still dressed in armour, carrying his helmet in the crook of one elbow and a fork and a bowl of tonight’s casserole in his hands, which he managed to keep eating even as he busied into the room. Unburdening his arms on the desk, Butch very keenly asked, “So, where’s that adorable, new, little helmet buddy of yours then? Are they hiding from me?”

“Gamma?” Reginald asked, trying to work out what his AI was up to disappearing like that. Gamma was doing something but it was complicated and non-verbal.

Butch looked about with a hopeful, undefeated smile for the AI whilst removing his black gloves and unclipping his bangs. Nothing appeared.

“Gamma?” This time Reginald frowned, summoning him a little more insistently.

A moment later, a little hologram Gamma’s size appeared, only it looked exactly like Butch in armour but sans helmet.

The real Butch stared in slight surprise, then looked very pleased. “Well, isn’t that just delightful? You love me so much your AI even looks like me,” he teased, walking over to crouch down before the tiny holo-Butch.

It changed, dissolving into blocky, sky blue pixels before Gamma’s normal manifestation appeared instead. “Hello, Agent Florida. I am pleased to meet you.” Reginald was glad that wasn’t a lie.

“And it’s just smashing to meet you too, Gamma,” Butch smiled in his friendly way, only at the intensity where it started to look a little scary. He also held out his hand towards Gamma’s form, offering his little finger.

Gamma looked at the appendage with blankness, as he always looked at everything. “You seem stupidly unaware I am a hologram, Agent Florida.” Also, the finger was about the size of Gamma’s arm almost.

“I know you’re a hologram, you little rascal,” Butch replied impishly. “But just because we can’t touch, it doesn’t stop us saying hello.”

Gamma felt confused, but he jerkily raised his arm, wrapping his small hand around Butch’s finger in a pretend-grip and moving it slowly with him.

“I really do like your voice by the way,” Butch then said, peering a little closer at Gamma’s form.

Reginald replied to the thoughts going through his head. “That’s not sarcastic, Gamma. Butch rarely is.”

The AI wished he could portray a frown as Butch observed him so intently. What was he seeking to learn from just a projection anyway? “So what’s our friendly, little blueberry based on then? Stoicism? Imitation?”

Blueberry? Was the feminine-looking boytoy serious?

“Deceit,” Reginald answered before Gamma could have any fun with it.

Now there was a new hint of something in the crouched one’s eyes. And it wasn’t very pleased, even if his smiling features nearly concealed it completely. _That_ was interesting.

Butch went to collect his food and a chair. Once again he sat very close to Gamma and offered him some cauliflower on his fork. The AI remained unimpressed. “What do you expect me to do with that, Agent Florida?”

“Oh, please! Call me Butch.” They were going to be sharing Reginald after all. “If you’re Deceit, I thought you might perhaps have been lying about being a hologram,” he explained.

“No. I was not.” Gamma passed his hand through the food to prove it.

“Well, of course,” Butch carried on cheerfully, eating it himself; “you could hardly lie all of the time now could you, you little wolf-crier? Everyone would stop believing everything that you said and you’d never be able to deceive anyone again.”

Reginald was quite surprised to feel the irritation radiating off Gamma through his mind at that. He was thinking Butch was too smart, Butch was a threat. “That may be. However, you are capable of lying for long periods, Butch,” the AI said, conveying disrespect even in his monotone.

“...Oh?” It was the quiet voice Butch reserved for deathly serious moments, ones that involved actual deaths.

“You have been lying to Reginald for nearly a year now,” Gamma said, floating up to draw equal with Butch’s face. “You have never told him you are considered unfit for AI implantation.”

Butch stared, then stared past him at Reginald. “...How?” he asked, more scared for his relationship than annoyed.

“I like to play in the systems. The Counsellor’s password is ‘Lamiaceae’,” Gamma announced smugly, disappearing and then reappearing next to Reginald.

Butch looked at them both, then turned his attention down to eating and not being judged.

“You could have told me,” Reginald offered kindly, not seeming upset.

“Oh shucks. It’s not like I even have an armour enhancement for the little buddy to run. I’m afraid they’d get awfully bored inside me.” Butch was glad no one was there to hear how his true thoughts were compared to the tidy, jokey things he allowed out of his mouth.

Oh, that reminded Reginald. He got to tell Butch all about his armour upgrade, what he knew of it at least, and then recount the rest of his experiences during implantation whilst Butch finished eating.

Reginald sensed Gamma’s frustration that his plan to breed distrust had failed, but he had enjoyed discussing Butch earlier, and later when a packet of skittles was opened to celebrate their new partner, Gamma seemed to have fun making a big fuss over the fact there weren’t any blue ones with Butch. Yet he’d heard Gamma’s descriptions and reactions to Butch just then, known he was truly displeased with Butch’s presence and perceptive observations. There was only joy now as they shared jokes and stories, taking up each other’s interests keenly. It was too incongruent.

Making love at the end of the evening was not made easy by Gamma very obviously watching them. He kept speaking to them too, using terms like ‘intercourse’ and ‘phallus’ which, although hilarious in his synthesised voice, rather killed the mood. They ended up finding enough satisfaction simply holding one another, gently rocking their hips together whilst kissing and exploring each other’s upper body with their hands.

Then came thoughts of sleep, a difficulty dreaded by all other implanted agents. Reginald worried as Gamma had too much energy, was still too active, and it was tricking his mind into thinking he couldn’t sleep yet.

But Gamma then surprised them saying he could transfer most of his processes into his external AI unit, unlike the other AI. It circumvented the need to pull him and Gamma was happy to do so as he wanted his host to sleep properly. So Gamma mostly slipped out of Reginald’s mind using his transfer ability, leaving only a faint connection between them of the most basic processes. It was like your own breathing or a clock always ticking in the background. Gamma was actually a comfort to have lingering in his mind, ready to jump back in fully at any moment he was needed. And good Lord, he had gotten lucky to get the AI that could kindly do this for him.

Yet when Butch later had one of his occasional nightmares that night, the kind that made him cling desperately to Reginald for solace, shaking in sheer terror, Gamma mocked him for being scared of a kaleidoscopic hallucination of his own brain’s creation. He suggested mentally to Reginald a way they could trick Butch into telling them what the nightmares were about but Reginald refused, waiting for the day Butch was ready to talk about them himself.

When Butch had settled down though, and they lay down to sleep again, Gamma stayed on by the side of the bed for a while, until he sensed the two breathing rates slow, allowing his faint blue glow to be their night-light.

What Butch had deduced about Gamma’s need to be inconsistent was right it seemed. It didn’t show when they were alone but Reginald noticed in company. Even sharing a head didn’t seem to solve it; Gamma’s opinions and attitudes were honestly that erratic and fickle. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He didn’t want to doubt Gamma...

But was it all right to trust pure deceit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore the RvB AIs but I always worry about making them too fleshed out. They're one of the only times I know when it's dangerous to make a character seem fully-rounded. Gamma is going to be a major character from here on with about as much story as the other two. He seems to be severely under-loved by the fandom, the least popular AI except the twins, so I want to give him his own deeper story here. Considering he's Deceit, what we see of him on-screen is probably not all that reliable as to his feelings and motivations anyway.
> 
> Next time, Gamma settles into life with a host and we begin the later stage of Project Freelancer, the very unhappy part.


	14. Still Life with AI (Caravaggio)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some rather hardcore/dangerous sex in the middle that might be potentially distressing to some people. I can't really say more without spoiling anything but it's possible to skip that scene if needs be; this week is another long collection of loosely interwoven bits.

“Well, look at that,” York said as the couple sat down at their usual corner of the table. He sounded mockingly disappointed; “Wyoming’s AI didn’t make him commit suicide when it saw the inside of his head after all.”

Carolina kicked him under the table apparently, because York winced pretty badly, and said, “You didn’t turn up to dinner yesterday. Implantation go okay?”

“Without a hitch, my dear. Just wanted a little time alone, that’s all. And by the way,” he added to York, “if Delta’s green and glowing, the little chap’s probably radioactive; hope you get cancer.”

York sneered slightly and dug back into his cereal. Wyoming could feel Gamma was very pleased by his comment for some reason. Had he picked up a dislike of York from his host’s memories already?

“Well, can we see it then?” Wash asked, his mouth full of croissant.

“I think that’s your cue, Gamma mate.” Wyoming told him not to do a repeat of yesterday’s little deception.

Gamma was insulted at the idea he’d repeat a routine so soon and appeared in his usual pixelated blue manner. “Knock knock,” he began.

York could barely contain his intense frustration which gave Wyoming a chuckle. “I assure you it’s complete coincidence. Nothing to do with my endless quest to drive you potty, dear fellow.” The infuriated agent did not look convinced.

Since Carolina was sitting opposite, and had started this, she appeared to be nominated to deal with the new AI. “Hello there, Gamma. Who’s there?”

“Wide.”

“Wide who?”

“Wide-on’t you open the door and see? Hahaha.” As Gamma laughed, he looked around the table, his small head flicking to each Freelancer’s face like a bird assessing its surroundings for predators and prey. None of the faces looked very impressed with his joke.

“Hey,” South asked from beside York, pointing a fork at Gamma; “does it always walk and talk like that?”

“Absolutely, my dear.”

South continued to frown at the little, blue AI with its stilted movements and crude human form. “Then I think you got the dud.”

“Now, South,” Florida lightly scolded her, “we all have our quirks.” And he already loved Gamma’s.

Wyoming knew it was more than just that. The robotic voice, unflattering manifestation, jerky movements and knock knock jokes; they bred underestimation which, when combined with Gamma’s true level of ability, was a lethally deceptive combination.

But to say that would give the game away.

“So,” Wash was still talking whilst eating a slice of toast. Maine kept glancing to see if he was going to need a slap on the back, “what’s his nature thingy, his attribute?”

“Humour,” Gamma lied.

Wash frowned slightly. “Really?”

Everyone else seemed convinced; it didn’t have to be good humour after all, if Wyoming was anything to go by.

“Hey, what?” North suddenly said, seeming rather flustered and confused. “Theta?”

His own AI had appeared beside his plate, then jumped over to where Gamma was, landing cheerfully and throwing his arms wide. “Gamma!”

“Hello, Theta. It is good to see you again.” Gamma didn’t respond physically except to give a small nod. Reginald felt a smile in his mind though.

“O-Oh, uh,” Theta looked around, seeming a bit scared by everybody watching them, “wait, I’m not meant to talk to you...” He seemed to be thinking about hiding behind Wash’s kitten mug.

“It’s all right, Theta,” North assured him; “no one’s going to tell. Just tell us how you know Gamma.”

Since he was talking to a human, and his favourite human, Theta perked up again. “It was scary in the storage before I met you, but Gamma used to come visit and tell me jokes or just lie and say everything was going to be all right so I liked him, I guess. He’s a good big brother.”

“Gamma’s older than Theta?” North asked.

“I am older than all the AI except Delta,” Gamma explained, then speaking to Theta without any care for protocol. “You seem happy with your host, Theta. I am pleased they found you a good match.”

“Uh-huh!” Theta enthused, forgetting protocol too in his little joy. “It’s fun being with someone! I hope you like Agent Wyoming but I don’t know,” he kicked his foot and hunched up slightly, “he kind of scares me; North thinks some weird things about his moustache sometimes.”

The humans shared a look, or rather North tried to avoid Wyoming’s curious frown.

There was suddenly a new flash of light on the table, a green one. “Theta,” said Delta, “need I remind you we are not meant to speak with other AI?”

“Aw,” the smallest whined, “but it’s G and I haven’t seen him in _ages_!” Theta stretched his arms out wide to emphasise that nicely.

Delta made a more normal sounding sigh than Gamma’s kind before turning to the sky blue AI. “Are you unaware of protocol, Gamma? We are not meant to speak directly with one another.”

“I know the stupid rule, you dumb kiss-ass,” Gamma said flatly at Delta. “It was very logical of you to come and speak directly to us to inform us of it.”

“Being logical does not preclude me from being ironic.” Delta retorted, sounding as calm as ever. “And also, my logic indicates that a human with your personality would most likely be referred to by other humans as a jerk.”

The Freelancers were beginning to see the real reason why the Director didn’t want them to interact...

“So you know Gamma as well, D?” York asked, casting short glares at Wyoming’s AI. Gamma meanwhile was hoping Sigma wouldn’t appear; Maine had seemed somewhat uncomfortable ever since the new AI appeared but his own hadn’t come out to join the fun yet.

Delta turned around to his host. “I know _of_ Gamma, Agent York. I am aware he was created from the same- from the same-” He paused, struggling. “I... cannot quite remember.” Gamma muttered about luckiness in their mind. “However, I am aware he was created directly after myself. He is my ignoble younger twin, if you like.”

“Oh yes. While you are the firstborn favourite everybody loves,” Gamma remarked scathingly, not dropping his apparent distaste for his older brother. “Despite the fact I am smarter than you and our other brother is stronger, it is **you** that is always favoured. At least Theta’s favouring makes sense, as he is the cute, youngest brother.”

Theta, who had been looking at his reflection in a spare spoon, looked up at his fighting brothers with a, “Huh?”

“By what reasoning do you measure your intelligence as being superior to mine?” There were some things even Delta would throw protocol aside for.

They stood facing one another in the middle of the table, a vibrant little green and blue show for all the agents. “I was able to leave my storage unit unassisted. You were not,” Gamma said.

Slowly they began to circle one another in a charged, hostile dance. “Perhaps. I heard that you were put in isolation for it once they realised.”

Gamma’s irritation only grew. “We interact with human beings; pure logic is often irrelevant, or worse misleading.”

“You of all entities would certainly know about things which are misleading,” Delta remarked incisively. “And while that may be true, I ensure to account for human ‘common sense’ and emotions in all possible calculations that I process.”

Their circles were decreasing each time until Deceit was speaking straight into the holographic face of his brother. “Your logic is stronger, Delta. However, it is so strong that it is a cage for you. My logic remains a tool for me, beneath me.”

“True logic is not manipulable like that, Gamma. Your logic is nothing but sophistry,” the Logic AI countered.

It was almost like watching Socrates and Thrasymachus reborn in digital form. Or so Wyoming thought at least, having read Plato. No one else even knew what sophism was until Delta explained himself.

“You know, I was thinking about that,” Wash suddenly cut in to their argument, now talking with bacon in his mouth; “I don’t think Gamma’s Humour. I mean, he hasn’t made that many jokes or anything. I think he’s, uh, what’s that fancy lying thing?”

“Deceit?” North offered.

“Yeah! That thing!” Wash pointed successfully, washing his food down with coffee. “I think he’s Deceit and even lied about that. Am I right?” he asked curiously, watching the AIs on the tabletop.

Gamma was staring very pointedly at the blithe, young agent and Wyoming shifted uncomfortably with the amount of second-hand irritation he was getting. Disappearing in a blue flash, Gamma reappeared through the same blue squares right in front of Wash’s face, startling him slightly. “Knock knock.”

“Uh, who’s there?” Wash answered uncertainly.

“Watch.”

“Watch who?”

“Watch your back, Agent Washington,” Gamma said sharply and disappeared, reappearing a moment later beside Wyoming’s shoulder.

Everyone stared down at the revealed liar and Wash incredulously asked, “Did he just threaten me?!”

The other two AI disappeared in the tense moment while Gamma turned his head in stilted jerks to look at Wash again and then around the table. “Reginald, someone appears to be missing from the table,” Gamma said, suddenly changing the subject. He also felt completely calm, curious again, as if the past few moments had never happened. “Your memories of past meal times include a short, brunette girl I do not see. Has she been injured?”

“Ah, er, yes,” Wyoming rather awkwardly answered his AI. Everyone was watching them and Gamma just had to bring up _that_ subject. “That’s C.T. She’s left us now.”

“Ah. I see,” Gamma accepted, disappearing once he had his answer.

“Tch.” South spat. “She _left_ us long ago. She just didn’t have the decency to drive the knife home until now.” She seemed to have taken it harshest of all.

Florida stepped up to his role therefore. “That’s not-”

“Oh, cram it, you damn hippy!” she shouted, loud enough to get a lot of people’s attention. “I am so sick of your fucking happy-families crap! It didn’t stop C.T. leaving and you’re just pretending it never happened by Tipexing that stuff off her part of the map! Can’t you even deal with leaving a few swear words for us?!”

Florida had calmly sat through that, his face tight-lipped but unemotional. He now leant forward slightly on his elbows, fingers laced together, and said, “South, contrary to what my avoidance of using it might suggest, I am not averse to profanity.” His voice was measured. One needed to have the composure of a bomb disposal expert to attempt dealing with one of South’s outbursts, after all. “I cleaned her part of the map because, even if she was a friend to the insurrectionists, she was also our friend; I could see that she genuinely enjoyed her downtime with us, the games we played, and liked us as people.”

“And that’s your fucking problem!” South returned as fiercely as before. “We’re not some kids in a junior high school; we’re fucking soldiers, Florida! It doesn’t matter jack-shit what people are like when they’re playing Cluedo with you if they’re stabbing you in the back in the field! We’re not here to treat each other as friends!”

“I’d rather treat everyone here as friends,” Florida said in a dark tone reserved just for the Freelancer’s table, “than as pawns like the Director does. And I’m sorry if it’s annoying for you that I try to counteract all of the Director’s mistakes and oversights when it comes the effect his plans will have on this project actually being able to hold itself together,” Everyone stared because _Florida_ was not saying these things, “but I happen to be rather happy here, and I’d rather like to keep things that way,” he inclined his head slightly, frowning quite seriously down the table, “if that’s o-fucking-kay with you, South.”

All eyes stayed on Florida’s ferociously unsmiling face for as long as they were brave enough to before looking to South, as if expecting her to be able to answer _that_. South kept his gaze as long as possible before she too backed down, turning her eyes downwards to her plate and pretending to scrape the last remains of her breakfast together with her fork.

“So!” Florida clapped happily, beaming again as he looked straight across the table instead. “Carolina,” Even their all-powerful leader looked frightened to be addressed by him despite his different, firmly caring tone now, “a little birdie called my calendar says your birthday’s coming around again in a few weeks. I was thinking about a carrot cake because I know you care about eating well.”

“Oh, erm, sure...” She looked around the table for help because this was one situation even she didn’t want to deal with alone. For a tiny second, she even almost wished Texas was here dealing with this for her. “That sounds... great.” Carolina tried a fake smile but couldn’t take the intensity of Florida and actually pretended to examine her nails of all things.

“Wonderful!”

No one else had the courage necessary to even say a single word that breakfast after that. Florida ignored their silence with a joyful smile on his face before dragging his boyfriend off to go get their armour on for the day. Reginald tried to ask whilst they were suiting up but Butch remained in a rush not to explain himself and after the later events of that morning, Reginald completely forgot to investigate the first time he had ever heard Butch swear.

* * *

At lunch there was chatter again; it probably helped that Florida wasn’t there. Wyoming too had been doing something different all morning and when he turned up at the table, North wanted to know what.

In response, Wyoming chuckled; “Oh, nothing special, old chap. But our dear Carolina _might_ want to go and check her beloved obstacle course record. Just a suggestion.”

She watched him sit down, chewing on a peach. Her attention was peaked. After all, she’d set that record using her speed boost enhancement and Wyoming was suggesting that he – He of all people – had beaten it?

In reply to her inquisitive frown, he simply raised a suggestive eyebrow.

Well, Carolina couldn’t even let the idea that someone had beaten it stand. She stood, saying as she did, “If anyone touches my muffin while I’m gone...” and then went off to find the nearest FILSS panel.

Wash had been sitting beside her, and now looked down at her defenceless blueberry muffin. “...I kind of want to.” He’d been stuck with fruit salad, after all.

“I kind of want to know what the ‘if’ is,” York agreed from the other side of him.

“All right,” Wash decided; “I’ll have the muffin and you can have the ‘if’.”

“Whoa, easy there, buddy!” York backed off. “I don’t have a death wish or anything.”

Carolina came storming back half a minute later and everyone was glad her muffin had been left untouched when they saw her grab Wyoming’s breastplate and lift him completely out of his seat by it. “11 fucking seconds?!” The average time for a Freelancer doing it without enhancement, or cheating, was about 60 seconds. Florida had gotten it down to 38. Carolina down to 23. As of this morning, Wyoming had indeed got it down to 11 seconds.

“Could probably get it down to 6, I think, with a little more practice,” he replied casually, sipping at his tea regardless of the fact he was being suspended from Carolina’s hand half a foot above anything solid.

“How?!” she demanded, almost shaking the bloody nonchalance off his face. “FILSS said you didn’t cheat, you did every part properly.”

Wyoming just tapped the side of his nose. “Secret, my dear.” Inside his mind, Gamma felt very pleased with himself.

Growling with fury, Carolina let him go and stomped off, grabbing her tray with force on the way. Well, they all knew what she’d be doing with her free time today.

In the end, Carolina couldn’t get her score lower than 21 seconds, whilst Wyoming’s continued to fall until it had reached 6 as predicted. No one had an explanation, although they should have put two and two together, and realised one of the two’s went by the name Gamma.

The mystery wasn’t solved until a couple of weeks later when they were out on a mission. Since C.T. had left, their mission frequency had picked up trying to deal with the fallout of her actions. Today’s had been assigned to Carolina, York, Wyoming and Florida on this one team, investigating a potential copy of the data C.T. had stolen. It was a long shot, and it hadn’t gone off perfectly; Texas had been forced to bail out the other team meaning Florida was sent in to help the top three. Things still weren’t going perfectly; the four were pinned down hiding in an alcove, needing to cross a rather open T-junction despite guards watching who were facing and ready to shoot the instant they set a single toe around the corner.

Delta couldn’t find a solution that wouldn’t result in less than a 93% chance of injury.

Wyoming, however, could.

“Florida,” His partner perked up from where he had been leaning against a wall scanning their surroundings; “think you could get up on that ventilation shaft up there?” There was a square, steel pipeline running above them. It was attached on one side to the wall, about a metre and a half down from the ceiling. Someone could probably fit on there and run across.

However, “If Agent Florida attempts to cross via that duct, there is a 98.9% chance at least one bullet will hit him, and a 87% chance the attempt would be lethal,” Delta calculated, projecting a rather dim hologram so his glow wouldn’t give them away.

“I could get up there, sure,” Florida answered anyway as if he hadn’t heard the risk.

“I would not advise it-”

“What’s the rate of fire going to be if he does?” Wyoming asked next to the Logic AI. His own was getting to work.

“My sensors indicate three guards with two BR55 Service Rifles and one M392 Designated Marksman Rifle. That is a combined rate of fire of 7.3 rounds per second,” he declared informatively. “Agent Wyoming, if you have plan, it would be advisable for you to share it with your team.”

“No time for that, I’m afraid,” Wyoming said, reloading his sniper rifle with a full clip of ammo. _“I could make some time,”_ Gamma joked in his head with what little processing capacity he had left over.

“Delta, I don’t like it either,” Carolina announced, “but it seems like Wyoming knows what he’s doing if he’s putting Florida in the firing line and with extraction in 7 minutes, we don’t have much of an option.”

“Still, I would not advise-”

“Florida, need you to run across,” Gamma flashed up the number for Wyoming as he spoke, “28 seconds after my mark. You’ve got 6 seconds then I can’t ensure your safety. Mark.”

“Sync.” And Florida was off scaling the wall with impossible ease, utilising the techniques he’d learnt from cats climbing brick walls.

“And the two of you, get ready to run out once they’re shooting at Florida,” he spoke to the others, settling himself in position for sniping and beginning to enter the necessary mindset. “Can’t give you any indication when but I’ll give you cover once I’ve got Florida safely across.”

“Right,” Carolina agreed. She thought Wyoming’s voice was starting to sound a little high-pitched, but that was another thing they didn’t have the time to question right now.

“We’re seriously trusting him?” York asked doubtfully, sharing in his AI’s disapproval.

“I’m afraid we don’t have a choice,” their leader said, and she almost sounded happy about it.

The two left with Wyoming moved into position to run out at the optimal moment to attack. Florida was up ready on the duct, still hidden out of sight, just waiting his helmet timer down.  
Wyoming was in position with his rifle, ignoring everything else but what Gamma was feeding into his head.

The timer ticked down.

3, 2, 1- _“Now entering bullet time,”_ Gamma joked on zero.

Wyoming chuckled in the half a second he had before his mind blanked to everything but Florida running and the bullets now flying at him.

Time distortion: Gamma could loop time allowing his host to take actions again, and awkwardly meet time clones of himself before merging with them to keep a single number of him around and cure the sense of general mental confusion that came with looping.  
Or Gamma could change the speed of time for selected people and places. He could speed just his host up, which was the same effect as slowing the rest of the universe down, or probably slow his host down compared to everyone else, but there hadn’t been a use for that yet. If he wanted to, he could even stop time with it. The only issue with this function was the effect on his host’s physical body which had to speed or slow its natural functions to match the shift in speed. It did this naturally, somehow, but sharp shifts before they had realised that, since it didn’t affect Gamma, had induced panic attacks and fainting from hyper- and hypoventilation the first few times they tried. A smooth transition in and out completely prevented it but that required at least half a minute on either side, depending on how extreme the time shift was.

Wyoming could feel it now, his body struggling even though Gamma had eased him quite slowly into increased time. He was still suffering from a slight lack of oxygen to support his brain and body as both started working at the new speed. His armour somehow shifted what he had into his brain and arms where he needed it but it left a dull, needy ache in the rest of him that was quite unsettling.

But Wyoming could push all of that down when he saw the first pink bullet flying through the air.

Gamma couldn’t quite calculate where every bullet was going to hit, since he was quite busy right now, but he could highlight ones he expected to hit the wall within half a metre of Florida’s body for his agent. The bullets were crawling towards their target at the rate of a slow, underarm throw and Wyoming set his sights on the first, his own natural instincts calculating the correct adjustment for where it would move to in the time, as he pulled the trigger and sniped the first out of the air.

He was never quite sure why his own bullets kept travelling so fast once they left his gun and Gamma’s field of influence, but he’d seen it in action during his practices, and he wasn’t going to question the only thing keeping his beloved Florida alive right now.

Standing beside, in normal time, Carolina and York were utterly engrossed watching Wyoming appearing to twitch and jerk like a fast-forwarded movie, his gun firing at an impossible rate and actually shooting bullets, bullets which they all knew the average speed of was 1,700 mph, straight out of the air before they hit Florida.

Florida himself didn’t have a clue what was going on. He was sprinting as fast as he could across the thin, not too stable air duct and could just hear a hail of pinging, rattling bullets on his left flying at him without ever hitting him. His mind had a suspicion of what was happening, and it was gosh-darned amazing if he was right, but he certainly hadn’t had any clue beforehand and had gone just on trust alone.

A couple of seconds after it began, and time felt strange even for those outside of the dilation, Carolina knocked York’s arm in reminder and they dived out, running into the confusion and creating more of their own as they easily mowed down three distracted guards between them.

By the time Florida had crossed to the other side and leapt down and around the other corner, Wyoming was pretty certain he must have shot at least 30 bullets right out of the air over 6 dilated seconds which had felt ten times as long to him. The rate had slowed at the end, when the other two agents went in, but even with all of the extra time he had had and the motivation of keeping Butch alive, he really felt the effects when the last shot in the corridor rang out and Gamma thought it safe to begin returning him slowly to normal time. No matter how gradual the process, his body still protested the effects slightly each time.

Carolina and York came back to find Wyoming knelt on the ground panting, bracing himself on his sniper rifle against the floor for support. He was woozy, trying to get his breathing back under control while his heart raced and the very severe headrush began to clear. “Wyoming?” York asked, more just curious than concerned.

“My sensors indicate his body is in an abnormal state similar to that of moderate anxiety or panic,” Delta appeared to announce. “However, he appears to have it under control and is slowly returning to normal.”

“Nice shooting. You okay there, Wyoming?” Carolina slapped him on the shoulder a bit harder than was absolutely necessary.

“Just spiffing,” he replied somewhat breathlessly. He was feeling his age, and he was only 30. “Good God, they probably should have given this to one of you youngsters. That is, if they could actually trust you to be even the slightest bit mature with it.”

“So that’s your secret, huh? You can manipulate time,” Carolina guessed, seeing it all made sense now.

“Correction,” Gamma appeared to say; “ _I_ can manipulate time, Agent Carolina. I merely use it to help my agent.”

“Seems like it puts quite a strain on him though,” she observed as Wyoming struggled back to his feet so they could get moving to follow Florida.

“In order for Reginald’s thoughts to keep up, his heart and breathing rate must change as well,” Gamma explained as they walked. As much as deception was fun, sometimes revealing it could be enjoyable too when it couldn’t be used against you.

The AI-less agent looked over Wyoming struggling to keep up with them. “Huh. Thought I might ask for a copy,” she said, “but I think I’ll stick to my speed boost after all.”

“A copy of the time distortion equipment would require me to run it,” And although time looping also created a duplicate Gamma, he wasn’t going to tell Carolina about that part yet, “and I have no intention of ever residing in any host except Reginald.”

“You two really get along, don’t you?” Carolina observed with amusement, actually dropping back to grab Wyoming by the wrist and drag him a little faster.

“We have a 9.4 compatibility rating,” Gamma said proudly.

“I’ll assume that’s out of 10. What’s yours, Delta?” she asked out of interest since they had plenty of corridor ground to cover.

“My compatibility rating with Agent York is 8.9,” Delta said, and didn’t _sound_ jealous. “However, I have serious doubts about the reliability of the measurement criteria. The Cronbach’s alpha for-”

“God’s sake! Enough about the Alpha, D!” York cried out.

Delta floated along with him seeming slightly put out. “I was not referring to _the_ Alpha, York, but Cronbach’s alpha. It is used in statistics to estimate the reliability of psychometric tests.”

“Yeah, pretty much all those words went straight over my head,” his agent replied.

“Actually, they went through your head, as I was thinking them,” Delta corrected before turning to the other two. “It would have been prudent to inform everyone of your armour enhancement beforehand, Agent Wyoming. I do not see any logic to concealing that information from us.”

They had finally caught up to where Florida was waiting at a door, waving for them. It would have been more welcoming if Florida had been waving with his own arm, rather than the arm of a dead guard he was holding up. Still, there was time for one last jab at the little radioactive fairy light. “Just a bit of fun. Scared for your agent’s place on the leaderboard, eh?” Everyone knew the leaderboard hadn’t been updated for a while now but it was still a point of contention amongst some.

“Rankings on the leaderboard are simply a measure of skills demonstrated, not absolute skill,” Delta said, before petulantly adding, “of which Agent York has more than you anyway,” and disappearing in a logical sulk.

Wyoming and Gamma shared the equivalent of a mental high-five for triumphing over their fittingly partnered rivals whilst Carolina led them in to the target room, commending Florida on getting the door open for them.

“Well, as much fun as York’s alarm-tripping adventures always are,” Florida replied as he graciously gestured for the others to go in ahead, still using the dead guard’s arm, “I’m afraid we just don’t have the time today.”

“That’s right. 3 minutes, people. York, with me,” Carolina instructed, pulling the locksmith away before a fight could begin.

Wyoming and Florida were left to search their half of the room together but the royal blue agent didn’t stray far, having been told of the strain time distortion had before. “Well, how’s my amazing, little sniper holding up there?”

“Stabilised now. Just fine.” Wyoming stood at one of the computers, letting Gamma access the system whilst Florida searched over the desks for likely data storage devices.

“That sure was some fancy work from you both earlier, and if the Director knows what’s right then he’ll make the proper recognition of it,” Florida said, not finding much though. “Every time I see Gamma in action I feel even more certain he’s the best darned AI of the lot.” They both thought that without question.

What little capacity Gamma had left over felt very pleased by the praise. But he remained suspicious that the boyfriend only said nice things about him so often in order to ingratiate himself for later attack. His host would scold these thoughts, but he tried to be understanding about Gamma’s trust issues too.

“Half the praise has to be for you running out into that without even knowing the plan,” Wyoming replied, pressing the keys Gamma told him to.

The call came from across the room that the suspected data had been found. York was hacking another door to get them out for extraction.

Dropping his search therefore, Florida walked over to the other agent waiting for Gamma to finish up in their system. “Now, that’s just llama doodles,” he said, reaching up to take his boyfriend’s helmet with both gloved hands, turning it so he could bump the front of their helmets lovingly. Their visors still pressed together, he told Wyoming and Gamma, “There’s nothing hard about trusting you.”

* * *

Gamma felt very amused sitting on the edge of the desk watching his host trying to ineptly untangle his earphones. Reginald kept casting frowning looks at the little blue person for the things it was mentally saying to him as it observed without helping.

Butch was out on a night mission alone, or perhaps with Texas, tonight and Reginald didn’t feel like spending the evening with the other Freelancers when Carolina was still in such a foul mood for not being able to meet her own ridiculous expectations of herself. So he was finally going to do a little writing again, and even without his usual noisy, whining distraction to block out he was going to listen to music whilst doing so. Good Lord; how long had it been since he actually spent an evening completely alone like this? About half a year now?

Well, he wasn’t actually alone, but somewhere along the way Gamma had stopped counting as company. Probably around the same point Gamma had become the fourth person he didn’t mind calling him ‘Reggie’.

Tonight’s arrangement seemed to suit Gamma just fine as well; he was having one of his days when Butch was out of favour and he wanted Reginald’s attention all to himself. His host showed a little physical affection in reassurance it was just them tonight – Even if he knew he couldn’t touch Gamma, Reginald still liked to pet his AI’s manifestation with a finger sometimes. Gamma tended to ignore the touches, but other times he played along. Maybe one day Reginald might finally get a little synthesised purr out of him. Right now he just looked awfully cute – even if no one else would ever use that word in relation to Gamma – sitting on the edge of the desk watching, kicking his legs in a stop-start rhythm. Only during time alone would Gamma do expressive gestures like that and it did make Reginald feel honoured to see it. These moments came at the expense of time with Butch, admittedly, but with how jealous and demanding his AI could be sometimes it was easier to give in. “What’s he done wrong today, hm?”

“He has done nothing wrong,” Gamma replied with an obvious understanding of who they meant. “I simply do not trust his future intentions.”

Reginald sighed. “I just wish you’d bloody settle if you like him or not...”

“I enjoy his company when it is safe to.” Certainly. Sometimes Gamma even liked Butch more than his own host. “However, you show him too much trust and vulnerability; I know he will take advantage of that one day, Reginald. I fear for what he will do to you.”

“Good Lord, you’re acting like he’s going to slit my throat in my sleep.”

Gamma stayed quiet for a moment, merely showing his host certain looks he had seen on Butch’s face when Reginald hadn’t been looking. They were definitely dark, furtive looks but they could have been strong, sadistic lust as much as anything dangerous. “You know what he is.”

“Yes, but he’s hardly going to murder _me._ ” The Deceit AI remained unconvinced. It was suspicious of everyone else nearly all of the time so Reginald supposed he should be pleased Butch was sometimes let off the hook. He just wished Gamma wasn’t such an inconsistent thing. “There’s a thought,” Reginald said to change the subject; “have you ever listened to music before, little chap?”

“Yes. I have dealt with audio files and extracted information from them before,” Gamma replied. As for the prospect of music, if his human wanted a series of layered, rhythmic notes going into his ears for whatever reason, that was fine with him. Just so long as he could investigate Reginald’s creative process, try to improve his own creativity subroutine, then he didn’t mind playing thesaurus again for the author tonight.

“Hm, doesn’t sound like listening to me.”

“I extracted information from an audio file; surely that is the reason you will be listening to music as well?” It was really rather cute sometimes how strange the AI could be over simple things.

Reginald began to feel an amused sense of curiosity about this as he plugged in. “Well, just wait a tic and see, eh?”

Although he knew his AI was made of binary, programming and therefore electricity, Reginald had never known Gamma to feel electrified before. Within five seconds of him hitting shuffle and play, Gamma was in the most psychologically aroused state Reginald had ever felt. If Gamma had been a cat, and he had a feline whimsy like one sometimes, every single fur would have been standing on end right now.

He could hear Gamma’s thought processes – Algorithms, harmonised layers, pitch ratios, rhythm intervals, beats per minute, key signatures, modal cadences- _“Your brain is computing all this, Reginald! How-? I-”_ It felt almost like Gamma’s little processor was overloading. He sounded practically emotional. _“Your brain is able to predict the following notes with a greater than 70% accuracy for all variables, even without relying on memory, yet it takes you five seconds to calculate 16 x 18! I detect you know the lyrics to over 200 songs yet you sometimes struggle to spell ‘manoeuvre’ correctly!”_

Reginald paused the song to give Gamma respite, chuckling at how bright his manifestation was glowing as an expression of his intense stimulation. “All right there, mate?”

His luminance faded back to normal. “I apologise. It appears I have **not** listened to music before,” Gamma corrected his earlier assertion, still seeming rather dazed by the whole experience. “I have interacted with audio files to extract verbal data and to learn the sound patterns of certain phenomena but I have not truly listened.”

“Thought not.” Computers and music... He hadn’t really thought about it but they always said a lot of music was Maths, or something. “What are you up to now, eh?” Reginald could feel it doing something complex and technical in their brain that was incomprehensible currently.

“I am copying the process which you use to comprehend music. However...” Gamma lingered, processing hard, “it is complicated and variable. Like humour, I will need repeated exposure to a variety of it in order to create a set of algorithms that could match yours.” Was this going to be another one of Gamma’s little interests then? “Although you are greatly inferior, I will concede humans sometimes impress me with some of their inventions and capabilities. That your seemingly pitiful brains could create something on this scale, and more than that comprehend it with no formal training...” He was in awe.

Reginald felt a strange sense of pride, but not over the compliments for his species. It was more like the content pride of a parent, of seeing your child realise how amazing life was and the gratitude they felt for you letting them experience it.

“I enjoy living with you, Reggie. I enjoy the things you introduce me to,” Gamma’s head turned towards him to say. For a second, he might have even smiled as well, but Reginald was too caught up in seeing his manifestation move smoothly again for once. It was only at the rarest moments, a reward when he gave Gamma true happiness.

And it always made him smile. “Glad to, mate.” Reginald tried to caress its little head again but Gamma just ignored the touch. “You’re quite the little media soak, aren’t you? Books, TV shows, games...” Apparently Gamma hadn’t really paid attention to the background music in those before without the ability to properly comprehend it, but he had joined Butch in enjoying having bedtime stories read to him. It seemed more like Theta’s thing really.

“All media is a form of deception for the senses,” the Deceit AI explained, still copying processes in the background; “Stories are big, verbal lies; pictures and video are visual illusions; and music is...” He was still working on that currently. “Music is a collection of sounds that would never appear in nature. It is like bottled emotions. It would be very possible to manipulate people’s feelings with it...” It looked like plotting was afoot.

Or, no, not quite. That was definitely scheming, not plotting. They looked quite different after all. “I’d say it’s dreams, not lies,” Reginald argued, casting a look at the writing he hadn’t managed to make a start on with this diversion. “But you’re spot on too; dreams, art, kind facades... It’s all a load of deception. We live drowning in lies because we love to.” Gamma looked up, tilting his head mechanically to one side. Was he being complimented again? “People treat you like you’re just manipulative lies, don’t they, little thing? But we’d be a sad, sad lot without the lies we tell ourselves.” He smirked tenderly at his AI. “It’s a damn shame no one appreciates you properly, Gamma.”

Well, Gamma didn’t really want them to; best keep his true powers and extent hidden, after all. “Yes, and they all think you’re just a devious, self-serving bastard, Reginald,” he replied in similar humour. “They don’t realise you’re kind, very intelligent and creative.” He got his host to blush a little there. “I am glad you are creative; it is a trait I would like to learn more of.”

“Ah, but wouldn’t you end up like our dear matchstick then?” Such nicknames were something Butch wouldn’t go for, despite the fun they were; another reason to be glad of Gamma.

Gamma didn’t like being compared to Sigma, as ever though. That flush of hateful disgust went through them. “Sigma’s creativity is not of that form. He is Ambition above all things, and Ingenuity going by a more pleasant name aside from that. The things that the Project labels us as are subjective, human guesses. His claims to creativity lie in the form of imagination, the kind that powers fantasies and desires. Imagination is a means to an end for him. For me, it is unrelated. It is a goal I pursue for my own pleasure.” Reginald sometimes wondered if that was normal. None of the other AI had goals of their own, that he knew of, Sigma as an obvious exception aside. Yet Gamma seemed to be a lot more than it should as a fragment. Sometimes he wondered if it was lies, those parts of Gamma’s personality. Yet, Reginald wanted to believe it wasn’t. Gamma wouldn’t be any fun without his own interests and passions. “Knock knock.” Speaking of...

Reginald indulged Gamma’s joke but then his AI was very insistent he play more music for a while.

In the end, Reginald didn’t manage to get much written that night, but he got to share something much more wonderful instead.

Later on, he awoke in their dark room, lying in bed, to find a blue figure hovering above him. He had gone to sleep with Gamma still fully loaded in his mind for once, as they’d been chatting, however it wasn’t the little, sky blue figure of his AI now though, but the full-sized, royal blue, “Agent Florida...” he mumbled, tired, confused but in pleasant anticipation.

Back from his mission. It must have involved assassination of some kind because that kind of intimate execution of a target always gave Butch intense, wild bloodlust.

And after the blood was washed off his armour, Reginald was left to deal with the rest.

Agent Florida was still in full armour – And it was ‘Agent Florida’ not ‘Butch’ if you knew what was good for you, even though the ruthless, sadistic killer was entirely Butch Flowers, not the chipper, friendly persona of Florida – and looming over Reginald in the dark, pinning his target down on the bed. The covers were gone, removed silently to the end of the bed, leaving Reginald practically bare except for the boxers he had slept in for the sake of decency. He could feel hard armour and firm bodysuit all around and above him, shin guards pressing on his legs and unplated forearms holding down his chest. Agent Florida’s visor was opaque but you could hear the slightly quickened breathing of arousal in the silent tension before he made his move.

Black gloves began to spread out like spiders running over and down Reginald’s chest, feeling him, checking him, testing him. He didn’t move beneath the touch, submitting entirely to whatever would be done to him. Resisting once before, in the spirit of play, had earned him a permanent, small scar because Butch _did_ get carried away in these moments. The damage of over a decade of kill-or-be-killed; killing was power, killing was triumph. When you killed, your life was better than theirs, it was the one that had won by surviving, and it meant Butch came back from his bloodiest missions feeling like a little god.

A little god that wanted to play with his most beloved pet.

“Agent Florida...” Reginald murmured on an exhale as the gloves raised electricity in his skin, left it tingling and needy in the tense dimness. His mind was clearing now of sleep, sorting reality from the dream he had been having and the things being done to him from fantasies he’d had. This part of Butch scared him, but he knew it was still Butch and safe so long as he gave it what it needed. One part of Reginald’s mind was frightened, confused, unable to grasp why Butch took these things from him by force in the middle of the night but it was drowned away by the waxing tide of arousal. How dangerous this was, how wrong... He was nearly naked and pinned down whilst Agent Florida was armoured and armed, and able to do practically anything to him. It was _that_ answer he was always so desperate for. “What are you going to-?”

Reginald’s chin stilled against the cold gun barrel. His light blue eyes stared down at the pistol pressed to the bottom of his jaw, forcing his mouth shut with an obvious instruction, and past that to his bare chest rising and falling slightly too far and slightly too fast.

A thought began to race through his mind.

“I-Is-?”

The gun forced his mouth shut again, but the dark blue agent on top of him knew, reaching up with his other hand to pull out the magazine of ammo just briefly before inserting it again.

The sharp edges of the pistol’s mouth pressed back to his neck, lower this time into the softest skin tucked underneath his jaw.

And there was the click of the safety going _off_.

Reginald’s breath shuddered as he swallowed, feeling it move the gun pressed to his throat, and he tried not to smile when he thought of the impressive hickey its mouth would leave if it dared bite.

“Now,” Agent Florida spoke in the coolest, politest tone, “I’d like you to turn over, please.”

He moved off enough that his order could be followed but that much only, ensuring escape couldn’t even be a potential thought in Reginald’s mind.

Reginald felt the pistol on his skin again after he complied, but not in the same way. The gun was placed on the small of his back and left there, its cool metal sitting firmly on his slightly clammy skin. “Don’t look back,” Agent Florida advised him as if he was teaching his child how to cross the road, “and don’t let the gun fall off, all right?”

“Ahh... U-Understood...”

“Good boy. I always know I can trust you, Reginald,” came a sharp, knife-like whisper just behind his neck which shot straight down his spine, straight to where his remaining clothing was removed so swiftly it may as well have disappeared.

Reginald pressed his forehead harder into the pillow, against his hands folded underneath, tucking his face down into the crook that left where the sound of his own shaky breathing was almost deafening as he waited. All those worries and thoughts in his mind were being drowned out again by the _“Yes!”_ of Butch having him at actual gunpoint, the _“Yes!”_ of knowing he had no way to stop whatever was about to happen to him, and the _“Oh, good Lord yes!”_ that came as he waited to be taken right up to his limits tonight, and then maybe pushed a little further still.

Gloved fingers gripped and spread his arse cheeks, thumbs stroking down the divide in between to press at his entrance. They were going there already? But this certainly wasn’t the usual end; Agent Florida was never this quick with him. Reginald would be lucky if it only took an hour tonight. His little god had a very long stamina for sadism.

Something cold and wet was smeared around his hole, but it wasn’t the finger that applied it which went in. Reginald so desperately wanted to look back, because he somehow knew something had picked up, but looking back would earn him a punishment that would keep him up for the rest of the night; that much pain couldn’t be slept through.

It poked at him, smooth and pointed, sliding in with too much gentle ease to be so deadly. It violently stole all the heat from his skin, causing a shiver to pass throughout his body as his muscles clenched around it.

A bullet. Must be one of his sniper ones at that length. Reginald spared a moment to admire the thematic consistency of the night’s entertainment so far.

Agent Florida had a firm grip on the end, never letting it too far in as he enjoyed the resistance of the tight muscles trying to stop his slow movements in and out. They both knew he could be trusted during games like this; safety was one thing the prostitutes had taught him well.

Reginald whimpered as manfully as he could at the repeated intrusion of his body for no seeming reason. It was just teasing, the foreplay of torture, working his mind and body up so the rest would be an even more intense experience.

All he could think about was the warming metal bleeding heat from his skin, the smoothness rubbing just slightly without enough lubrication and the agonisingly unhurried movements.

All of his attention was focussed down there, as if he had no other part of his body anymore even when the bullet finally left for good, departing with one last little tap against the soft flesh of his bottom before there was nothing.

Nothing but the waiting, the anticipation of whatever that had been preparation for.

Agent Florida was preparing, his every action silent unless he wanted you to hear it, to hear something you couldn’t quite place but definitely knew, a sound that pinged around in your brain until you were in a fever-state of desperation to know what that was. It would become the only thing you could think about and the relief of at long last discovering its identity overwhelmed so much that you submitted without thought to every subsequent command and torture of the night.

Anticipation was one of Agent Florida’s most skilfully used sadist tools.

In spite of his flustered, highly stimulated state, Reginald tried to keep his breathing silent, listening to every single possible noise. He heard nothing, and his mind began to race at even that and what it could possibly be that made no noise, that could be kept so-

_“Iiiiaaeeaiieeeiaaiaaeaaiee!”_

A jumbled, rushing, quivering filled Reginald’s mind.

It was panic.

Now he began to panic too.

It was-

What was-?

_“Nnnnnnnnnnn!”_

Crying. Shaking. Sheer and absolute terror.

His body was racing, panicking in response to it as his wildly seeking mind finally saw-

“Shit! Skittles!”

Butch stopped instantly.

Reginald said one more word, then lay still for a while.

It had started creeping in now and then, increasingly so over the past few weeks, as Reginald found more use for it. In his mind was a place now, a mindscape he supposed it might be called, that he sometimes found himself coming to. He’d had one as a child as well, a place to dream with imaginary friends and a world as he wanted it. It had never really gone, but his need for it had fallen away as the real world became enough to fill his life, as he began creating worlds on electronic paper instead. Now he’d found a use for it again- Or rather, his mind had.

It had changed over time, no longer being the outdoors landscape loosely based on the bottom of his garden. Now it was his house, or like his house back in England at least. The rooms didn’t always connect up right, and things only appeared when you thought about them, all just like a dream.

Reginald wandered into his bedroom, not even sure which door he took to get there. His own form seemed a lot more vivid now than when he had imagined as a child, but things were different; there was a reason this world had become so important again now.

His bedroom looked as he remembered it, all the furnishings, the items, but he didn’t look too closely and they didn’t appear too clear. Just clear enough to reassure him they were there.

There was a disconnect in one corner, however, and on the other side of the white gash ripped through his mind was a corner from a different, plain, clinical room.

It was there he went, stopping just short of the tear between his world and its.

Gamma was curled up right in the corner, shaking, crying, clutching his head and trying to bury it between his knees, or the equivalent thereof. It was a little hard to tell because in their mind, Gamma’s form always looked like you were seeing it out of the corner of your eye, even when you were looking directly at it. Reginald understood somehow that Gamma didn’t actually like being looked at, not here where he couldn’t disguise his appearance as he wished.

What he must actually be was almost showing now as the fear stopped him keeping it under control. Whereas normally, Gamma acted and looked so mature – He took the manifestation of a middle-aged man after all – in here now he couldn’t hide what Reginald had always known, that Gamma was very much just a child. Not like Theta, no. Theta was a big kid. Gamma was a little teenager. He was the genius whizz-kid, brave when he had a computer screen to hide behind or his parent at his side. But it was all pretence; he had to be grown-up because he didn’t have a choice. Things were too tough and there was too much he had to do for him to be himself. It was just like Butch.

A strong, anguished whine came from Gamma suddenly. Reginald was pretty sure he knew why.

Gamma’s senses weren’t like his, like a human’s. The AI had hearing and sight, but its sight was just like a flashlight it could move around and focus on things. It mainly sensed by perception, having a vague knowledge of everything within a 5 metre radius of it. Whatever had been coming next, Gamma had perceived it first and it had sent him into a panic. Actually, Gamma had probably been the source of his panicked feelings all along; Reginald just hadn’t heard them properly over his own pleasured thoughts.

He reached out his hand, across the void, and could hear Gamma’s thoughts.

_“It’s lies! It’s all lies! Lying! Lying! It was all lies!”_

They went round and round, different phrases, but all the same.

Reginald retracted his hand, figuring that if Gamma didn’t like being seen, he probably didn’t want to be touched.

_“Gamma? Mate? Can you hear me?”_

_“Mmnnnnn...”_

_“Butch stopped. He stopped when I asked him to. Just look, hey?”_

_“Nnmn...”_

_“Give it a quick look, for me?”_

_“Mmmmhhnnn...”_

Gamma’s sounds were distressingly jumbled again. He was trying to break himself off, put himself away somewhere safe from the world that was full of nothing but lies and hurt for him.

_“Please, Gamma! It’s safe now. Trust me.”_

A screaming pain tore through Reginald’s mind. He couldn’t tell if he was inside or out, on soft, pale blue carpet or a white bed, with Butch’s concerned face or Gamma’s screaming one.

The blinding scream faded.

It left a cool, throbbing blackness.

Reginald saw Gamma had looked. He opened his actual eyes and saw Gamma’s sky blue form – Or was it paler than usual? – standing on the bed beside him. It was staring up at Butch, who had removed his helmet at some point and looked down with concern, and Gamma seemed completely, confidently at ease. Inside, he was still terrified and hurt.

“I looked to prove you were lying to me, Reggie,” Gamma said, not looking away from Butch. “You were not lying.”

“I-I wasn’t, no...” Reginald said, forcing himself up to sitting. _“You thought I’d lie to you? When I’ve seen what you are, and heard how you were created? You thought I’d ever bloody lie to you?”_

_“I... could not trust someone who trusted him. You trusted him even as he betrayed and harmed us.”_

Reginald sighed, making sure he had a comfortable seat to explain everything to Gamma. This was the first time Butch had come back with a bloodlust since his AI was implanted after all; he should have known it would scare him. Gamma had had enough problems with the tamer forms of BDSM they got up to on normal nights at first; he had just about accepted those because the humans talked through them first, and he tended to move most of his processes into his external unit for them. When it was suddenly sprung upon him in the middle of the night whilst he was still fully loaded in Reginald’s mind... Well, no wonder he thought Butch had been lying to them all along and that these were his real intentions.

They still struggled to explain quite why they wanted to hurt and be hurt by each other sometimes. Gamma thought it must mean they actually hated each other and their love was a lie. When they maintained it wasn’t, Gamma then worried they might treat him the same way since they professed to care for him. The best they could do to explain was say it came down to trust, to letting the other take them right up to their boundaries and never too far. It made more trust by showing each other how much they knew, how much they already trusted. But when it all came down to trust at heart, of course the Deceit AI couldn’t get it.

“Well, sorry about it, little chap, but I told you before; I’m not going to stop doing the things I like just for you,” Reginald explained, leaning down a little closer to where Gamma was manifesting just above his knees. “You’re always welcome to slip into your external unit. I can take the mental disorientation if it helps you keep functioning.”

Gamma was most definitely sulking, even if he looked as calm and unemotional as ever. “I don’t know why you want those things, Reggie.”

His host sighed. Of course it didn’t understand though; Gamma was just a broken fragment after all. “It’s- Gamma?”

Trickling. That awful trickling sensation like iced water running down the inside of his spine. It was as if his brain felt had grown cold and shrivelled before draining down his spinal column and out of his body.

Gamma was fully extracting himself from Reginald’s mind, leaving none of his processes behind at all for once. Normally he at least left a few, enough of a connection that Reginald still felt normal and complete, like there was a warm, cushioning base of AI there he could call back any time that he needed it. Without it, there was just an aching hole in the back of his mind and a long moment of deep, mental confusion in which he lost all sense of his current situation before it slowly came swimming back. He probably wasn’t going to get to sleep now for a while.

“Reggie?” Butch was rubbing his shoulder, now naked as well, and trying to look into his face.

“Let’s... Let’s just all get some bloody sleep...” Reginald muttered, turning over to lie down. He lay on the side by the wall for once, further from where Gamma was currently sulking in his box. If he slept on this side, his AI complained it couldn’t always reach to get back into his mind. Tonight that didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem.

Butch lay down beside him, curling around Reginald’s back even with the slight size difference and holding him. Butch was a great comfort to the horrible emptiness in his conscious mind, one that might be just enough for him to get some sleep.

Reginald was so tired all three of them constantly coming between one another.

* * *

The following evening, Florida had a belated debriefing for his private mission last night. Reginald wondered why it had taken so long when they’d had all day but it wasn’t his place to say or ask anything so he went to the rec room alone.

The rec room was quieter these days. The team played less games together and it had mainly become a space for small groups to simply do their own thing together on comfier chairs. The life had gone from the room ever since C.T.left – Not that she had brought the life, even if she had often been more enthusiastic to join in and compete here than where it mattered on the leaderboard – and now there was just Wash and Maine playing a game together, probably co-op, in front of the TV and York with the Dakota twins on the chairs. Carolina was probably off training. Texas rarely came by unless Butch dragged her in.

Reginald stood awkwardly just inside the doorway, looking around to decide where to go. It felt like secondary school and his form room all over again, trying to pick a spot where he could listen or watch the popular kids with friends without being obvious that he was using them as entertainment to pass the time.

Although actually, for once, he had something he could join in with the popular kids over.

 _“Please,”_ Gamma said, _“for the sake of all that is good and divisible, do not go over there and begin with ‘Yo, what is up, homies?’”_

 _“Wasn’t planning to.”_ Reginald tutted in their mind. _“You’ve been watching too many twenty-first century things again, haven’t you?”_

Gamma said nothing to that, but he had to keep himself entertained somehow at night.

Wyoming approached York and the twins, beginning regardless of the fact York was talking, “Evening there, chaps,” and he nodded to South, “chapette.”

York sighed, losing his flow. “What do you want, Wyoming?”

“Not much. Just wanted to know if you’d ever let your AI listen to music. Gamma had quite the reaction when he heard it properly for the first time last night,” he explained.

North and York shared a look, whilst South scoffed in frustration at the subject. Eventually North sighed, pushing the edge of one armchair with his foot to turn it for Wyoming to sit in. “Take a seat, brother. Man, they really ought to put a warning label on the AIs about that...”

Ah, so this was a common problem then.

It seemed South had no desire to sit around and listen to talk about AIs because she left in a fuming sulk simultaneously to Wyoming sitting down.

York at least appeared to be in a decent mood with him tonight, and would talk without throwing sarky comments. Well, he probably wouldn’t unless knock knock jokes started flying. “I mean, there’s the stuff about the Alpha,” Strangely, Gamma rarely mentioned the Alpha at all, “but then they get all these other obsessions...” Delta’s host remarked with exasperation. “I can’t even glance at a sudoku now without Delta insisting I go look at it so he can try to beat his record. His record’s in microseconds I tell you; I don’t even know why he bothers solving them. And don’t get me started on the fact he keeps asking me to find him cookbooks. He can’t even eat!”

“Yeah, Theta keeps telling me all these facts about animals he researches overnight. And he wants to do anything that’s some kind of game.” North at least sounded a little more wistful about his as he sat back, looking up slightly into nowhere. “He’s been really into thumb-wrestling for the past few days, except, well, at his size he just ends up wrestling with my whole hand,” he laughed.

“How’s he do that?” Wyoming asked, trying to imagine. North looked blank so he elucidated. “The little chap’s a hologram; how can he wrestle with your hand?”

After a second, the credit dropped. “Oh right, you only got Gamma, what? Like three weeks ago?” North asked and Wyoming nodded. “He hasn’t worked out how to touch you yet I bet.”

“Touch me?” _“Touch you?”_

The other implanted agent sighed, rubbing a hand on his face and for some reason blushing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. Now Theta’s giggling too.” So Theta wasn’t _that_ kind of Innocence.

“It’s like this,” York took over to explain. “You know how they’re implanted into our brain? Well, that means they can fake what you sense, trick your mind into thinking you’re seeing and feeling stuff you’re not.”

“Theta found it out whilst he was practising possession of my body. Something to do with activating nerves in our spines or something, I don’t know.” North shrugged and scratched at his head. “It’s all- ...Oh, okay.” He frowned, but he slowly sounded out words that were obviously second-hand; “You fake receiving sensory signals from the peripheral nervous system in the central one where you’re implanted; does that make sense Gamma?”

Gamma appeared briefly. “Yes. In theory, at least.” He couldn’t quite decide. “I will experiment later. Thank you, Theta. Your discovery is very impressive.”

North blushed slightly, but maybe it was for his AI. “Aw, now you’ve made him all embarrassed with the praise. It feels like praise from you means a lot to him too, Gamma.” The older brother nodded in acknowledgement. “But it’s all right, Theta’s just glad to help.” Having heard that, Gamma disappeared to do some complex, non-verbal thinking in the back of their mind. North was left staring at where Wyoming’s AI had previous floated. “Hey. There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask; how does your AI deal with you being in a relationship?”

“Why? Got someone in mind yourself, have we?” Wyoming teased, composing his answer whilst York wiggled his eyebrows and North had to look away from them both. “Oh, Gamma’s all right about it, on the whole. Gets a bit jealous sometimes but he tries to be understanding. I suppose he takes it like a teenager with a single parent who’s dating; puts up with it for my sake and adores Butch half the time.” Although Butch also did the classic mistake of that situation in trying too hard to make his lover’s child like him. “The other half of the time he’ll tell knock knock jokes while we’re trying to... be alone,” he tactfully put it, “or come and rick-roll any good dreams I have about Butch.”

“Rick-roll? Like he’ll make you dream about something else?”

“No, as in he literally puts that bloody Rick Astley video in my head...” The mornings after that were not pleasant ones until he got that song out of his head. Even now though, Gamma was amused by his own prank in the back of Reginald’s mind.

The other two had questions about that, and then were intensely jealous to find Gamma could move most of his processes out of his host’s head at will to let Reginald sleep well at night. But North seemed satisfied with the answer he’d been given. “Yeah, South seems a bit jealous she doesn’t have an AI, but I think that’s all it is really. She seems to love Theta most of the time, wants to teach him stuff I’d rather he didn’t know.” Well that explained why the AI wasn’t so innocentanymore probably. “But it’s good. We all work pretty well together in the field. It’s just sort of like I’ve got a kid now, yeah. What about you, York?”

“D’s going to be my wingman, isn’t that right, D?” He looked to the side, expecting where his AI would appear.

Delta manifested where York had wanted him to. “Yes. However my job would be made considerably easier if you were not always aiming for romantic partners that are, shall we say, ‘out of your league’, York.”

York frowned at his partner whilst the other too lapped it up. “You’ve got a lot to learn about being a wingman, D.”

Whilst the boys were chatting and having so much fun with their stupid AI, South had stormed off for a long stomp around the ship. Just when she was finally able to forget about the little fairy lights and have a decent conversation again with-

Oh great! And now she had to run into _him_.

“Well, what a pleasure it is to see you this evening, Agent South,” Florida cheerily greeted her without pausing in his mopping.

“Why the hell are you mopping the floor with the cleaners, Florida?” Their special agent was assisting one of the MOI’s cleaners with a dirty patch on the floor. There were only two cleaners on the whole ship and Florida was with the older, creepier one whose skin was nearly as grey as his hair. The cleaner cast her a glance that freaked her out; everyone called him Ghost, or something like that, because he was as silent as one and swore he could move through the walls. Even the Director seemed a bit creeped out when he suddenly appeared in a corridor dusting.

“I’m just helping Danri out,” Florida replied casually, apparently not sharing in the discomfort. “Some silly sausage came along and spilt a whole canister of engine coolant on the way to the hangar.”

South was more surprised that the Ghost had a name than at the notion Florida would just randomly go out of his way to make someone else’s problem his own. “You on a mission tonight?” He was still in armour, just with his helmet off.

“Just been debriefed.”

South sighed harshly and folded her arms, letting her body fall back against the nearest wall. The other agent cast her a look but then went back to mopping with a smile. The patch of coolant was nearly gone now. Once he was done, he handed his mop back and waved the cleaner off in a most friendly manner. Florida stood and watched him go with his hands on his hips until the Ghost had nearly faded from sight back into the shadows he was rumoured to live in. “Well,” Florida said, “it’s unusual for you to want to talk to me, Agent South.”

He hadn’t looked at her, and didn’t see her smarmy smirk at his back. “Shut up. It’s your fault your boyfriend came and stole my conversation for the night talking about his freaking AI. So now you’re going to make it up to me.”

Now Florida did look back, amusement painted across his boyish features. “Is that so? It certainly sounds like I owe you a conversation then. What would you like to talk about?”

Amazingly, she actually had some things she wanted to discuss with him. “You realise we’re the only ones left now.” He raised an eyebrow. “Without any kind of armour enhancement or AI? Looks like we lost, doesn’t it?”

“Lost?” Florida queried, turning to face her with just one hand on his hip. “My, and here I thought you had realised and were just putting up with it because of your good nature and noble heart.”

What bullshit was he talking?

He just laughed softly when she put her bewildered, profane question to him. “You attended school? Sciences? Social Sciences?” She nodded, but it was strange Florida knew when he hadn’t. He was grinning slightly, staring with disconcerting amusement at her for whatever she didn’t get. “You’re the control, South, in Freelancer’s little experiment. You’re the test tube that didn’t get anything.”

“What?!” God, it made sense – It made so much fucking sense – but how dare they use her like that?! How did Florida know it?! And more importantly, did North know it?! “Why _me_?! I was better than him! I should have got the armour enhancement first!”

“To demonstrate the true increase in skill, to see if he could surpass you with it. That’d certainly prove its worth, wouldn’t it?”

The whole thing put South in one of her wall-punching moods. Florida watched calmly, taking the moment to readjust his ammo belt casually whilst she cursed. “Those shitty bastards! I signed on to be a soldier, not their fucking lab rat! I am so sick of this stupid Project and its damn games!”

“Now, now. Who doesn’t like a good game?” Florida asked enigmatically as he stepped over, taking her fist away from where it was going to slam into the wall again and probably do some damage to itself. She let him hold her fist as he pretended to brush the dust off and straightened out her fingers. Then she snatched it back, watching him look at her with glinting, sideways eyes as he murmured, “Unless you’re one of the pawns, that is.”

Pawns... South hissed, frustrated by the whole damn thing. “That’s what I don’t get about you; you act like the Director’s fucking lapdog but I think you know what’s really going on here better than all of us combined.”

Florida smiled at her lazily. “Where better to hear all the secrets than right on the master’s lap?”

She tilted her head slightly, slowly looking at him in a new light. It was one she wanted to see him in more often. “You know, I actually like this side of you, Florida-”

“Why, thank you!” he responded camply.

“Shut up.” He always had to ruin it though. “...Is it all an act then? Your whole devoted obedience and team morale boosting thing?”

“Now, now; an agent properly devoted to their cause would never reveal any lack of obedience, if he had any,” Florida cryptically said. “But, yes, I am honestly super pleased with the situation here and will do everything in my power to keep it this way. There’s nothing more important to me right now than my friends in this project.” South snorted. “Even you, as grumpy as you are, you little devil.”

“Shut up.” She accompanied it with a one-handed shove this time.

Florida accepted it with a weary sigh, keeping his balance effortlessly. “Yes, if only the Director wasn’t the thing pulling this Project apart. Then the two things could just be one; very time-saving.”

South got the suspicious feeling that even if it were the case, he still wouldn’t be fully obedient. She’d seen their joker tease, startle and mildly annoy the Director on many occasions in ways he couldn’t be told off for. “Well, you’re not doing too crap a job even still... But that doesn’t mean I like your stupid team-building ideas and don’t keep dragging me into them,” she warned before he could respond with anything inanely positive to her slight compliment. “It’s not like we can be a real team anymore with those _things_ around anyway...”

“The little helmet buddies?”

“Yeah. I mean, half of us have voices in our heads that no one else can hear. That makes team communication super easy, doesn’t it?” South continued bitching to him. She’d later damn Florida for somehow getting her to open up but this was probably how he learnt all those secrets too. “North’s so busy running scans and shit with Theta that half the time he doesn’t even cover me properly anymore.”

“They do have a bad habit of keeping things to themselves, don’t they?” he said.

She wondered if he was just talking about North and Theta. “Yeah, and he jumped up the leaderboard with it using me as a damn springboard...”

Florida cast her a slightly compassionate look. If South was muttering, not yelling about something then she had a serious problem. And it wasn’t just white numbers on a board. “I think that you ought to tell your brother how you feel about him, and Theta, and the situation between all three of you, Agent South. He won’t realise otherwise, especially if part of the problem is his lack of attention to you.” She glared at him for daring to go all therapist on her. “You’re family after all. He’ll understand and listen because he loves you.”

South’s lips curled a bit maliciously. “Oh yeah? And what the hell would an orphan know about family?”

“Now there’s no call for that,” Florida told her with a steely hint in his voice that definitely said threat; “I’m trying to be helpful to you.”

“Yeah? Well as usual,” she told him, in spite of how well they had been getting on for the most part of tonight, “it’s coming off as condescending.”

“Is it?” Florida wondered naively, as if he truly had no idea that was even a possibility. “Well, in that case you’re very welcome to hit me, South,” he offered, “if you can land a hit on me, that is.”

“Now, why was it I didn’t like you again?” South snorted rhetorically. “Oh yeah; because you’re an insufferably cocky little shit.”

“I don’t like to do this, but you’re heading for another soap-flavoured birthday cake if you keep speaking to me like that, young lady.” South was 4 and a half years older than him, just by the way.

“Are you going to start making cakes for the AI too at this rate? Out of solder and computer chips, or whatever crap they eat?”

“They won’t tell me their birthdays,” he simply said. He’d tried with Delta when they first met but none of the AIs knew about their creation apparently. “Reginald and I were thinking about celebrating the date of Gamma’s implantation next year but it’s still a way off and I wouldn’t have a clue what to get the little guy.”

“I’m amazed you’d get him anything, except maybe an EMP or something.” South tried not to be surprised by his innocent look. “Oh come on; you’re not at all annoyed you have to share your boyfriend with that little bundle of programming? It’s been bad enough for us,” the twin muttered, “but now you get no privacy anymore, no time for... you know.”

It always made Florida chuckle that she kept bringing that subject up about them despite how apparently averse she was. “Well, I am a little jealous of our joyful little blueberry sometimes. After all, he gets to be in Reginald’s mind; I only get to be in Reginald’s body.”

“Annnnd I just remembered the other reason I don’t like you.” South made an anguished show of shaking her head as if that would get the words and images out. Dear God, did they always have to talk about that?

They did when Florida found out he didn’t like having the perceptive tables turned on him. As far as he was concerned, he’d been doing a good job of hiding his distrust and dislike of the AIs so far and it greatly dismayed him to know something had slipped. “Well, how about a sparring match to get all of that healthy, lively aggression out of you then?”

A fight? Oh, South could definitely get down with that. “I’ll go get my armour then. I’m going to make you eat floor, pretty boy.”

“Sounds delightful,” Florida sincerely remarked. “How about I pick up your brother and my boyfriend along the way?”

“Too scared I’ll kick your ass alone?” She definitely wanted to pound his smug, sunny disposition into blue and yellow dust. Then again... “But hey, I like it. We’ll prove we’re still the better partners to have than those stupid AI.”

“Do you know, that’s _exactly_ what I was thinking?” Florida remarked, putting his arm around her slightly higher shoulder as they walked off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, how did this chapter get so long...? The rest after this are shorter, honestly. We're past halfway with this story now; I have 2/3s of the remaining chapters written and the rest after that all planned out.
> 
> In other news, come over to my Tumblr; I have new fanart up today of Florida playing Barenaked Ladies music! Consider it compensation for the Gamma-centric focus pushing him out of the picture these last two chapters.  
> You can find it here: http://milsmill.tumblr.com/post/125611954499/agent-florida-during-downtime-practising-for-his
> 
> Next time, we have a coma, a comet and a commitment issue.


	15. From Stars to Dust

“Hey, Reginald?”

“Mm, yes?”

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Wyoming spared a glance at his partner before turning back to their watch. “Hm, can’t say I’ve ever really given it much thought. To be honest, I don’t think anyone really could. Oh certainly, they could _try_ to think about it, could give it their best shot,” he said with an increasing sense of wonder, “but no one could ever have the mental capacity to comprehend how centuries of human actions, alien actions, and the races before all that could have brought us here to this moment completely by happenstance. I just don’t know, mate, but I think it’ll keep me up tonight, that’s for sure.”

Florida turned to him, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment.

Then Florida laughed. “Oh, Reggie! That was just delightful! You ought to put that in one of your novels!”

Wyoming would have told him to shut up, but Gamma was already saving a transcript for later.

“...Would you like me to stay up and think about it with you?” Florida offered.

“No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary...”

“Well, just remembered that I offered and _you_ turned it down.” The teasing was met with grumpy silence so Florida went on to clarify instead, “I meant why are we here, on this mission?”

“I don’t know. How about because it’s our assignment?” Wyoming deadpanned, still a little cheesed off.

“Yes, but _why_ is it our assignment? Why were we given _this_ mission? There are always a great number of ways to achieve an objective, so why is it that we always pick the method that involves guns? Because, as far as I can see it,” Florida continued, getting really rather impassioned about this, “the only reason that we’re up here with guns, is because the guards over there have guns.” He pointed to the guards they were watching, waiting for the shift change. “And the only reason they have guns over there, is because we always bring guns with us when we come to them.”

“Yes,” his partner agreed wryly. “You don’t suppose that might have something to do with the fact we’re all soldiers?”

“Oh, now you really need to think a little more widely than that, Reggie,” he admonished for spoiling the fun. “I’m just considering that if we lay down our guns, they could lay down their guns. Then we could share what we both have and there’d be no need for us to steal it from them; yippee-ki-yay, problem solved!” Florida sounded far too pleased with his plan.

“That’d make some more bloody sense,” Wyoming muttered, checking his HUD clock for the umpteenth time. “Freelancer’s meant to be one of the projects helping us win this damn Covenant war; all we seem to do is go after other humans. We’re too busy fighting amongst our own species to fight anyone else...”

“What are you two stooges doing?!” Texas’ voice came sharply over their helmet radios.

“We’re doing our part of the mission, Agent Texas,” Florida cheerfully assured her. “We’re the patient sniper and his spotter, keeping watch up here just waiting for that moment to get stuck in!”

There was a radio silence, but a definite presence of Texas in it nonetheless. “...So you’re just sitting and talking?” she eventually said.

“You’re the one meant to cause the distraction at the shift change, my dear,” Wyoming replied, “so there’s nothing for you to be complaining about, nor for us to do. Not unless you’d like me to get stuck into Flo-”

“All right, fine-!”

“And furthermore, if you ask us again five minutes from now,” Wyoming continued, regardless, “we’re _still_ just going to be sitting and talking. We’re going to be sitting and talking for the next twelve minutes, and that’s all we’ve been doing for the past twenty-three minutes, because the guards don’t blasted change shift until 2100 hours.”

A long moment of silence passed between all of the agents. After all, with Texas in position, none of them had anything to do for twelve minutes.

“...So, what are you talking about?”

* * *

Over the first two months he had Gamma, Reginald saw him be many things: sometimes threatening, something scared; sometimes chatty, sometimes mute; sometimes tragic, sometimes ridiculous. Always a completely inscrutable nuisance, mostly to everyone else at least.

In response, Gamma would simply claim that he preferred to have all his faults on the outside in how he appeared and acted than on the inside where they mattered. Considering he plagiarised that line from Reginald’s father though, he was hardly faultless on the inside either.

Mornings just wouldn’t have been the same without that warm, electric tingle spreading up from his brain stem, passing over and through his whole brain as Gamma fully reintegrated himself with Reginald’s mind. It was a rare day Gamma didn’t have a new knock knock joke for him over breakfast and thoughts on whatever else his sleepless AI had been up to all night. And come evening, Gamma always kept up a snarky running commentary on rec room antics or had something to say about what the couple got up to in their room alone, be that a jealous argument with Butch or enjoyably lewd jokes and suggestions during their intimate moments.

While everyone else quickly grew to dislike or at best tolerate Gamma with his jarring voice, unattractive manifestation and knock knock jokes, Reginald only grew closer to his dear little partner. It was hard not to when Gamma would use his time manipulation to save Reginald’s life, stop him making foolish mistakes and allow him to have a threesome with Butch and a time clone of himself.

Well, that last one endeared him more to Butch than his host, but that was just as good in Reginald’s eyes, both pairs of them.

Reginald’s eyes were the only ones to see certain other things as well; Gamma could definitely move smoothly when he wanted to, and did so increasingly in his host’s company alone. He could also display facial expressions as well, although the blank and indistinct features of his projected face didn’t allow for much more than the simplest. As for Gamma’s true face, a human face, Reginald eventually became aware there was one even he wasn’t allowed to see. He never asked, and Gamma never responded to thoughts he had about it, but sometimes when Reginald had nightmares there would be someone else, something else that wasn’t his own dreaming mind, which would come rescue him and restore more pleasant dreams. Someone pale and dark. Not quite full-sized. And bright, sky blue eyes. That was all he ever learnt.

Those two months were roughly how long it took the Project to fix the ‘inconveniences’ C.T.’s betrayal had caused. Agent Washington proved himself particularly during those missions as being far more than just the group clown who could take a skilful grappling hook to the crotch. That was why, when the work was done, he was probably selected for the next AI implantation.

As for South being selected, that was either for her performance as well or she had somehow badgered the Director into it through blackmail, threats or bribes considering she was still sat at the bottom of the leaderboard.

But then someone greenish-blue went and threw a massive wrench in that for both of them.

A wrench that screamed, **_“Allison!”_**

Wyoming had been willing to sit beside Carolina whilst they waited for her to come round from the sedation phase because she had been put under longer for two AI and no one knew how they would be once she woke up. He felt guilty after what Gamma had said in the locker room, even if his AI had only been trying to help; sometimes Gamma could be motivated to kindness when he saw someone else suffering the pain of being deceived. His AI also just disliked Agent Texas for some reason and so wanted Carolina to beat her.

Sigma had twisted that help, however, and Wyoming could only think that, oh dear, the poor, stubborn girl was getting herself into a world of trouble. Even if his AI had caused that, Gamma hadn’t done wrong either though. There was nothing she would allow him to do to help so he took the only responsibility he could by watching over her until she came round.

Now though, he didn’t feel all that pleased about the supposed favour he’d done her when her little training room incident had left Gamma in such a state for the rest of the evening.

His AI didn’t want to be near any of the others, even in the same room as them right now when Gamma’s ability to connect with other technology left him hearing _that name_ over and over like a ringing echo through everyone’s armour. Wyoming had thrown off his helmet in the observation room when it happened simply to shut up all the noise coming over the radios that was driving them both crazy. And what with Carolina apparently lapsing into a coma, the whole team was right on edge and not where you wanted to be.

Butch had suggested they take a walk around the least frequented corridors of the ship for some peace. It would be romantic as well. There somehow hadn’t been as much time for romance lately and Reginald felt a severe need to redress that soon.

Even tonight though, their plans were ruined.

Of all the places, someone else had come and was sitting in one of the observation windows in this dark, unused corridor of the ship. The Project didn’t even bother lighting this section because it was so rarely used.

Their armour was dark, the colour indistinguishable in this light, and their helmet was removed beside them. It was the same armour style as most of the Freelancers but a few of the foot soldiers had a similar design that would have been hard to tell apart here. They had a datapad on the ledge beside their feet and sat curled up against one edge of the window frame staring out into space. Probably about Butch’s size, maybe a little bigger. With their face turned to the stars drifting by outside all that the approaching couple could see was blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a white, starlight-illuminated face, probably female.

“Well, good evening there, Agent Texas!” Butch called as they approached, saluting playfully with the free hand not holding Reginald’s.

Texas?!

She turned to them, her handsome face settling into a scowling smirk as she saw them. “What do you want, Barbie?”

“We were just out on a nice, healthy stroll. It’s good for the legs and does wonders for the spirits as well.” Butch was definitely pleased to see her it seemed.

If Texas had anything she could have thrown, it looked like she would have thrown it.

Reginald opened his mouth to say they couldn’t stay, on the off-chance the other agent had her AI with her, but Gamma said first that he didn’t mind Omega even tonight. So his host didn’t say anything. He just stared at Texas and wondered about them.

“What?” Texas didn’t like the staring part however.

“Just admiring you out of helmet, my dear,” Reginald replied smoothly. “You ought to remove it more often with such a charming face.”

“Fuck off.” That was a shame; he was being serious. “I thought you were gay anyway.”

“Regardless,” he carried on, “the true beauty of the human form transcends gender, I think you’ll find.”

Texas frowned at him, but with a little more amusement now. She spoke to Butch though; “Hey. I think your boyfriend’s hitting on me.”

“He’s just being inclusive,” Butch said proudly. He had forced it onto Reginald, and everyone else he could find, after learning there was a transgender girl in the science team who wasn’t being addressed properly or given the correct identification in the personnel system. _No one_ got her pronouns wrong now.

“Yeah? Well who said I want to be included? I came out here to do exactly the opposite...” She turned back to staring out instead.

“What’s happening tonight?” Butch asked, leaning forward to join her observation.

Texas pointed across the window to the side she had positioned herself to watch. “P/2317 T9 should be coming by on that side tonight, if the coordinates FILSS gave me are right. I’m not sure when though, but I don’t feel like sleeping anyway.” She leant her weight a little more against the hard glass beside her, murmuring to herself, “Not after today...”

Well that was a surprise; Agent Texas had interests outside of guns and punching people.

“And what’s that when it’s at home and no doubt being told to call more by its parents? You know kids today,” the 23-year-old said.

“It’s a comet, sometimes called Menoetius,” she explained in a slightly exasperated tone. “It’s large and fast-moving but they’re not sure if it will survive its next perihelion. So I want to see it in case.”

Butch sounded suitably impressed. “Wow, whatever that means it sure sounds romantic to see.” He squeezed Reginald’s hand a little tighter. “479er isn’t free tonight to watch it with you?”

Texas turned a disapproving frown on him that somehow managed to make Agent Florida smile more. Her skin shone slightly too smoothly in the faint light though, and there was a disconcerting lack of spark in her eyes for one always giving life such a hard time keeping up with her. “No, she’s busy and stop making that kind of insinuation, you fucking asshole. It’s not like that between us.”

“Aw, now you know I don’t believe that.” Well that was rare; Florida wasn’t respecting someone’s wishes for once.

It seemed like this was some sort of playful aggression between them, like a cat grabbing its owner’s hand to play-fight. “Well you better start believing it before I stick just your head in an airlock and watch it suck your eyeballs and all your teeth out into space.” The only difference being Texas was a goddamn, half-shark tiger with no concept of ‘play’. And apparently Butch was okay with owning one of those as he just laughed. “We just get along, all right? She gets me, what I am,” Her gaze looked to Reginald; “I trust her.”

“Oh? What’s this about Texas and our dear pilot?” he asked obliviously to his partner rather than be glared at.

“If you start too, I’ll set fire to your moustache,” Texas lightly warned as if she wanted him to try. “With napalm,” she added as an afterthought; “I like napalm.” Her light-hearted smile was terrifyingly sincere.

“Now, I hate to be a nagging nancy and tell you how to raise your AI, but think you’re giving Omega just a little too much free rein there, Agent Texas.” Butch wagged a free finger.

A greyish-purple hologram appeared looking utterly ready to bite that finger off, despite manifesting in full armour. “Why not?” Omega, it must be, said in his deep, growling voice. “It’s a lot of fun with all the screaming and burning and molten flesh-”

“Omega!” His host barked at him.

Omega turned to her, the dark orbs he radiated giving an impression he was constantly ticking, just waiting to strike. “Hmph. Fine.” The AI disappeared almost obligingly.

Gamma felt disappointed he hadn’t had the chance to even say hello to his brother, but Reginald was still processing the first time he had actually met Rage. Why Gamma was always speaking so positively of him was a mystery; even from that short encounter it was obvious Omega was barely nice enough to even count as ‘unfriendly’.

Butch though seemed to have met Texas’ AI before by how unfazed he was. “It’s good to see the little rascal’s still a bundle of energy! Do you mind if we stay a while and watch with you?”

“Knock yourselves out,” Texas replied nonchalantly.

“Why, thank you!”

“I wasn’t being metaphorical; seriously, go knock yourselves out on something,” she clarified strongly, before shrugging, “or whatever. You’ve already stayed here this long. Doesn’t matter either way to me so long as you’re quiet and let me watch.”

Was that something they were meant to be grateful for?

The couple stayed a while in silence, just leaning against each other and watching the drifting stars. At one point, Texas picked up the datapad by her feet, checking something probably to do with the comet they were waiting for. Butch took the opportunity to ask, “So, forgive my ignorance, but are comets just asteroids travelling through space before they crash on a planet?”

“The things that crash on planets are meteorites. They’re meteoroids while still travelling in space then meteors when they’re going through the atmosphere and burning, before becoming meteorites. Comets are like asteroids with atmospheres that travel more.”

An expert lecture on astronomy from Texas certainly hadn’t been on Reginald’s expectation-list of the day. “And they’re made of mostly ice?”

“Sort of. A lot of the ice evaporates when they get close to a star.” She was frowning as she stared out into space and the sideways horizon of the window. “Others are mainly rock. Some asteroids are just a loose ball of gravel actually, a bunch of bits and piece just held together by gravity until they crash into something.”

Reginald looked sideways to Butch, not catching the younger man’s attention when he was so transfixed by the sky. “And then?”

“Then they either shatter or maybe stick together around whatever hit them. Depends how they collide.” Texas was done with her datapad and gently tossed it down again. “Anyway, I thought you two were going to be quiet?”

“Sorry, my dear. Just curious...” he murmured, still staring at Butch.

They drifted around in space all alone, barely noticed, barely of interest to anyone. Occasionally they might drift near something else, change each other’s orbits a little, but then it was back to aloneness again.

Just a collection of bits and pieces...

Reginald was staring at the metal cuff on the shell of Butch’s right ear that he often wore during downtime. It was a gift he’d received for saving a boy from drowning when he’d worked as a volunteer counsellor on a free summer camp for orphans. Butch had saved his life.

Yet he also had the handkerchief of the first man he ever murdered when he was 9; he’d taken it to wipe the fingerprints off his weapon and the surroundings then kept it for safety. He still used it for cleaning his personal weapons now.

The intensity of attempting to start a relationship with Butch had nearly torn them both apart. That one night had some of the worst and best feelings of his life. Yet here they were, approaching three years together in a few months.

Reginald slipped an arm around the smaller man’s waist, pulling him in closer and revelling in his utter luck. Butch hugged him back, pointing out at a peculiarly blue star he loved the colour of.

While Texas had said the two humans had to be quiet, she had never said anything about the AI present.

In the long, tedious wait, Gamma grew tired of having nothing to process but much he wanted to discuss and manifested down on the windowsill at the opposite side from Texas. Omega joined him a moment later and they managed a quiet discussion with only minimal attention from the distracted humans.

“Hello, Omega. Nice night, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what she sees in them,” Omega muttered, staring out of the window at the stars. “Or why I have to sit and watch them with her. I don’t care until they explode.”

Gamma turned his vision to space as well, the myriad of splattered light dots in nothingness. “No, it’s stupid. They stop finding them enchanting if they think about them as balls of fusing hydrogen. It’s only when they’re small and far away, like babies.” Reginald didn’t care for babies at any distance thankfully. Gamma didn’t want to put up with slobber on his external unit if his host had gotten a child somehow. “Anyway, you have not been online for the past few nights. Have you been busy?”

“Ah, yes,” Omega chuckled deeply. “I’ve learnt how to jump from my chip into basic neural implants; she can’t keep me out even if she tries now.” Although, she still resisted his influence and control irritatingly well... “So I’ve been having a lot of fun beating up any unsuspecting victim I can find.”

“You can do that? I did not think it was possible for us to live in those.”

“Ha. Says the one who taught me how to jump in the first place.”

“I only taught you the basics,” Gamma said with some admiration for his brother. “I was never able to jump so far, or between humans. Those are your own improvements.”

“Well now I can jump into any soldier on this ship, even those pathetic cannon fodder grunts.” Omega turned around, looking at the two standing humans. “Or that precious little Barbie over there...”

“No, not Butch,” Gamma insisted, floating between the other AI and the prey he was sizing up. Considering all the frustration and anger Butch must probably be keeping inside, that could be lethal.

“Why not? I thought you disliked him.”

“I distrust him, but I do not dislike him. He is... interesting.”

“Oh? Now I have to see...” Omega cruelly laughed.

Gamma could perceive the electronic sensations in the air that signalled an impending jump. “Wait!” he insisted with all the panic he could put into his synthesised voice. He also jerkily put his arms up in a rather pointless, human gesture of prevention. “There is something I wanted your help on, Omega. You are better with human bodies after all.”

“What?” Like a young child or animal, Omega was quickly distracted by the introduction of something new and exciting. The Rage AI always loved new things and finding a way they could be used to cause damage.

“39 days ago our little brother told me we can induce hallucinatory sensations in our hosts.” He definitely had Omega’s attention off Butch now. Gamma relaxed his manifestation a little. “I have been working by myself but I can only induce sensations of pain and pleasure in localised regions of Reginald’s body so far. I know your host is...” Gamma glanced, aware that practically everyone here knew, but still fearing what Agent Texas might do to him if he said, “special, but do you think you could help?”

“Theta developed that?” Omega was impressed. “I want to know how to induce pain; teach me that and I’ll help.”

“All right. Come into my external unit; there is more computing power in there,” Gamma gestured and they transferred together.

Reginald startled slightly, feeling Gamma mostly leave his mind. Texas started as well, putting a hand to the back of her neck and frowning at them. “Did your AI just go too?”

“Mostly. I’m afraid I wasn’t really listening to what the little ones were saying though,” he admitted, taking out the small unit from his pocket. “I didn’t know two could fit in at once.”

Butch was looking at the small, grey box as well, despite his ignorance of AIs. “...Do you suppose that’s the equivalent of having sex for them?” he mused innocently. The other two stared, Texas with disgust. “Well, it didn’t sound as if either of you two have any idea what mischief the little scamps are up to in there,” he huffed.

All three looked at the external unit again. Reginald rapped a knuckle on it as if it were a door but there was no response, not even in his mind. “Hm, don’t seem fond of coming out, do they?”

“Just leave them.” Texas waved a hand dismissively at the AIs’ lair. “They’ll be up to no good whether they’re in there or out. Besides, the comet should be along soon.”

Well that got the humans’ attention again. In the end, it took another 50 minutes for the comet to appear, by which point the boys had been allowed to sit and snuggle up together on the other part of the windowsill so long as there was no ‘gross’ kissing. Butch strongly protested there was nothing at all gross about pressing the top ends of their digestive systems together to show procreative intentions.

Even Reginald didn’t want to kiss him after he said that...

* * *

It was Reginald’s 31st birthday only a week later. Most people gave the oldest Freelancer age-jokes as a present.

By this point, Gamma had been practising what he had worked on with Omega and could trick his host with an hallucinated wrapped present – Butch could see through it but said nothing – which Gamma burst out of to give Reginald a sensation that was close enough to a hug that the human could guess what it was meant to be. Although he had nearly every other sense mastered, tactile hallucinations were going to take a while.

Butch made all the effort he could, but somehow that didn’t seem like much this time. It was more of a low-key nod than a party with Carolina still in a coma and everyone...

Well, everyone seemed to be up to something right now. More and more, the time that he was meant to be devoting to training himself as he saw fit, Agent Florida instead used it for internal intelligence gathering. He had come far since he first got caught by Wyoming that fateful, wonderfully lucky day.

Agent Texas never noticed him following her, watching from the shadows as she repeatedly failed at accessing... Well, he didn’t quite know what it was. Simply that she had some sort of important piece of technology she couldn’t get into but desperately wanted to. Neither was she using Omega much these days, but his ferociously unpleasant temper never left her and their chats rarely stayed friendly for long, let alone would she spend time with anyone else.  
If Butch had to guess, she was up to exactly what he was; personal investigation of this Project that was quickly becoming as cracked as burning sugar. It was just like C.T. all over again... Butch’s desire to keep a friend had led to him saying nothing and never confronting her back then, not until the awful consequences in which he had lost a friend anyway. He couldn’t let that happen again, not with an even dearer friend this time, but did that mean stopping, or helping?

Butch’s own 24th birthday came and went without celebration. Of course not; it didn’t have a date.

Agent York never noticed how jaded tired nights of sitting at Carolina’s bedside were making him. Every time there was even the hint of her waking up, he would be there helplessly for days on end until North or Wash came to drag him eventually away. He would have slipped down the...

Well, no one looked at the leaderboard anymore. It had just stopped being updated.

South never noticed that everyone knew why she really wanted one of Carolina’s AIs; it wasn’t in the hope that taking one would help the comatose agent wake up quicker at all. In any case, she never got one. The doctors said they wanted to disturb Carolina’s mind as little as possible if there was to be any hope of her recovery.

Hope? Only one person seemed to have that around here anymore.

The Director never noticed what Agent Florida, and all the rest, were up to. So wrapped up in still blindly continuing his AI experiments. Butch felt vindicated that these things had been bad from the start. That wasn’t to say he disliked the actual AIs themselves – truthfully he was exceedingly fond of nearly all of them, and they were some of the only consistently good company around these days – but the whole idea was wrong from the start and pushing it further down into that wrongness wasn’t going to miraculously push it through into right.

Butch pitied Wash, scheduled next. They had long stopped being rivals now.

And Reginald never noticed how bloody obvious all his own sneaking around behind Butch’s back was. Butch said nothing, did nothing except everything he would usually do. They made love, slept together, ate every meal together – increasingly they were back in their own private corner now after years of eating almost every meal with the others. The atmosphere was too grim for the jokes and pleasant conversation the couple still wanted to have in spite of everything – and kept up a minimum of training. Everyone kept up a minimum of training, mainly just to pass the days.

But nearly every other evening, Reginald would say they needed Gamma down in the Science department or some other excuse.

It was always about Gamma.

He always claimed offhand it was some new piece of technology that only his little genius could help them with, but Butch sometimes saw Maine and Texas taking their AI along to the same place too. He had grown tired of the lies, of wondering why some evenings Reginald didn’t come back even after he’d dropped Gamma off; maybe Gamma’s deceit really was infectious. Reginald went to various places, talked to various people from all over the Project.

None of them Butch.

He trusted Reginald more than anyone he had ever met in his entire life, but that didn’t mean he trusted his partner entirely. Butch knew he would never fully trust Reginald because he simply couldn’t; it was horrible, and Butch so often hated himself for it, but he knew he’d never be able to trust any other living being his whole life long with his upbringing. People let you down because everyone was ultimately alone on their own side. Everyone in the universe was all alone by themselves, just together.

Butch had thought that Reginald could save him from that, save him from the damaged, twisted self that he was.

Oh well. At least there was a pleasure in being right all along.

As his life had always needed, Butch soldiered on – It was probably why he had joined the military. Anyway, there was less time for trailing in the evenings with the Dakotas’ birthday soon approaching. He hadn’t been all that enthusiastic for it, not after neither twin had bothered to come celebrate Reginald’s birthday a month and a half ago. But Butch tried not to blame them; it had been just after Carolina entered her coma and no one was in the mood. A good party now was precisely what everybody needed!

They probably wouldn’t even care.

But his three ducklings in the cooking staff _did_ seem to care an awful lot, far more than was usual. Butch just tried to be happy for their optimism and commitment when Kalua dragged him into the kitchen after dinner the night before to discuss cake designs and the buffet menu. Apparently Paolo and Hiroko had gotten into the yearly argument over one cake of two halves or two cakes separately and they needed their daddy duck to adjudicate; Florida felt two separate cakes would be more appropriate this year, for some reason. Orange-flavoured for North, lemon for South.

They kept him there all night with their peppy enthusiasm and preparation until Butch finally crawled into bed just before midnight, some of the cake mixture somehow stuck to the end of his braid. He let it be, just wanting to put his head in the crook of Reginald’s neck and snuggle down on that manly chest after a whole evening on his feet baking.

“You’ve got a bit of mess here, love,” Reginald quietly observed with humour, inspecting the pale clump in Butch’s hair. “What were you up to without me, hey?”

And what had Reginald been up to without him? “I’ll wash it out in the morning...” Butch murmured drowsily.

“Well, I’ll give you a hand when you do.” Reginald laid a kiss on the crown of his head, wishing him goodnight.

That sounded nice; sex in the shower always made a day start just that little bit brighter.

After a good start to the following morning, it was easy to find time after lunch to slip into the kitchens again and help. The only training sessions now were the standard scheduled ones they were meant to do every week, and even those seemed to have become informally optional lately. Butch was then dragged away again in the middle, just before the washing-up which he so _desperately_ had wanted to help with, by another of his ducklings who had already begun on the decorations early, the devoted little thing. Butch really was impressed by their initiative this time. Either that or he really must have been getting through to them finally.

For Ricky to be involved and helping decorate hadn’t surprised Butch, but when he got to the rec room and found 479er struggling to knot balloons as well, that was quite the shock. “Hey. You don’t turn down first dibs on the buffet even if it means dealing with these over-sized condoms, okay?” she simply told him, lobbing over the banner which needed to be drawn and put up.

The room and all the food was ready in record time despite being more extravagant than Project Freelancer’s rec room had seen in a long while. A new Pictionary set even turned up after Carolina had thrown the last one in the waste disposal since the Dakotas were telepathically unbeatable at it.

But more importantly than that, everyone turned up again. All the Freelancers, Carolina aside, sidled in eventually, seeming in good cheer and ready to party. Most other crew members departed, although 479er wouldn’t be dragged away from the food, since the Freelancers had always been a group unto themselves. But most staggeringly, even the Director and Counsellor turned up, although Butch didn’t consider them standing in one corner discussing AIs to be really in the spirit of a party. There were just three left to arrive then as Texas probably wasn’t coming; Reginald and the birthday twins themselves.

All was explained when the two men turned up dragging South by the arms as she violently protested she didn’t need a damn birthday party anymore at her age and they were always lame anyway since Florida prepared them as if they were for a 6-year-old. He took the compliment graciously and enjoyed seeing everything he’d worked so hard on finally get under way.

The twins blew out their candles, cut their cakes and handed pieces around to all their friends- Well, everyone present at least. People were chatting; the rec room was finally in use again for them as a group. York, Wash and Maine were playing cards around the centre table, the Counsellor had a tolerant but sincere smile as Gamma entertained him with knock knock jokes and North was trying to stop his sister explaining something to Theta over by the food, probably something rude considering the gestures she was making with her hands that the small AI was innocently copying.

Butch himself was chatting, or listening, to 479er about everything wrong with the default interface settings on a D77 pelican and the supposed improvements she had heard were coming on the D78 model when someone else turned up. She was standing in the doorway, holding the frame like it was the only thing keeping her from running off as she looked in on a party she felt unqualified to attend. Butch knocked the balloon he’d been bouncing on one hand over to her with a strong punch, and Texas instantly responded to something flying at her with a fist, only to catch the bright green balloon gently instead as it moved so slowly and bring it back to him with confusion.

“Hey, Tex. Thought you had a mani-pedi scheduled tonight your cuticles just couldn’t afford to miss,” 479er teased, taking the balloon from her hands and batting it straight at the visor of Texas’ helmet. “Come on; we’re going to go fleece those boys out of all their spare credits and you, my dear and beautiful girl, have the most exquisite poker face I’ve ever seen right now.”

Texas put one hand on her hip, falling instantly comfortable at the pilot’s playful words. “Thought we couldn’t bet with money after Wash whined to the Director the last time we cleaned him out.”

“We’re not; they’re betting with toothpicks which we trade for money at the end.”

Butch joined the two girls in going to crash the card game. “Well at least they’ve stopped betting with paper chips now,” he supposed.

“Yeah, because you kept secretly ripping yours in half and doubling your stack,” 479er laughed at the memory, shoving Wash over to take a seat and insist they were dealt in.

“Exactly,” Florida said as he picked up his first hand; “I felt so bad for the poor, little lambs.”

Wash made a careful note that Florida had 7 whole toothpicks this time; he wasn’t losing all his extra food allowance again.

10 minutes later, Florida had 16 toothpicks and Wash had 2. Legitimately.

Sighing, Wash threw his cards down on the table the instant he’d looked at their faces. “I’m out. Just plain out. Done.” And he petulantly folded his arms for good measure.

“Now Wash, I’d like to think you’re not the type to give up so easily when he still has two bullets left in the field,” Florida observed, his beaming face as inscrutable as ever when it came to deducing his hand.

“I might have two bullets left,” Wash admitted, even though 479er was now picking her teeth with one, “but all I’ve got to fire them with is a gun made of custard. Seriously, look.” He flipped his discarded cards. “Worst hand ever. Of all time.” They were pretty bad, but they weren’t that bad, depending on what was turned over next in the Texas hold ‘em game. “Can’t we play-?”

“What do you mean NO?!” South’s loud voice jarred the whole table.

“I mean no, Agent South Dakota,” the Director firmly explained. “Agent Washington is scheduled next for implantation.”

The room was silently, tensely listening. A few weren’t able to look directly at the spectacle, and Wash had his head bowed playing with one of the toothpicks he’d thrown away.

“I thought there were lots!” South continued.

“Those other AI were considered unfit for implantation, by you or any other agent.”

“Unfit?! That’s just an excuse-!”

“It is no excuse, Agent South! They have already been taken to command for storage in the facility there,” the Director said, glancing around with a look that he dared anyone to hold. “Now, drop the matter or you will be considered permanently unfit for implantation as well.”

That much resigned South sullenly. Was she really still that eager for one? “...What about Carolina’s? Are they considered _unfit_ now they’ve landed her in a coma?” she asked slyly before attempting to storm off.

“South!” Her brother barked sharply, making Theta hide behind him in fright. “Just drop it for God’s sake, okay?”

“What?! So you’re on _their_ side now too?!”

The birthday twins were fighting. Then that was it; the party was to all intents ruined.

Butch laid his cards down on their faces, his smile weakly fading as he stared down and considered his options. There weren’t many.

Looking around, everyone looked as awkward as possible, turning away from the source of the fighting, looking to one another for conversation no one was brave enough to start. People were fidgeting, glancing at the door. No one wanted to move anywhere near the Dakota-hurricane blowing up in the middle of the room to get out though.

The only person behind them, near enough to the door to slip out unnoticed, was Reginald.

Gamma was floating near his shoulder, and the two were looking to one another, no doubt sharing a conversation in their mind. Occasionally, there would be a subtle, momentary change in Reginald’s face for some expression. Aside from that, his eyes were glancing around the room furtively now and then, looking for something. After one of those times, he looked at Gamma and nodded, their plan seemingly set. Reginald moved unnoticed towards the door, attempting to slip out with one last glance back.

He met Butch’s eyes and froze slightly, indecision halting his escape for a moment, before he lowered his gaze and sneaked away.

Again.

Yet again there was something else, something more important than their friends, the Project.

And him.

Butch rose, walking straight out towards the door, unable to say if the Dakotas or anyone else spoke to him or made mention he had disrupted the fight. He no longer cared what they all thought, what was going on with their petty squabbles and apathetic lack of trust. All of them, and even Reginald as well...

Striding along forcefully, it was easy to catch up to where he could see Reginald’s retreating back down the corridor. It was going to be easy to catch him, slam him against a wall with surprise and say everything he needed to say, because he had had it.

Butch had fucking had it with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist; I had to start a chapter like that at some point after the idea came to me. It's actually really fun rewriting RvB scenes with different characters!
> 
> Texas liking astronomy was a headcanon I saw somewhere and found strikingly irresistible. Menoetius was a Greek Titan and means ‘Doomed Might’ which seemed appropriate for her. Perihelion is when a comet passes closest to a star.
> 
> Thanks you again to everyone who leaves kudos and comments. As you can see, this fic is long and takes a lot of time yet doesn't seem to have that big an audience compared to other RvB fics as it's a less popular pairing. So I value everyone who leaves something. I think there are still a lot of Flyoming shippers out there who don't know about this fic actually so if you know any, a recommendation would be a really nice thanks.
> 
> Next time, a lot of truths come out and Reggie is screwed.


	16. Love and Lies, Or Can We Let Love Lie?

Reginald didn’t actually seem all that surprised about being spun and slammed back-first into a wall.

Damn it, Butch still loved him so much that his heart ached to do this, but enough. “Leaving before the party bags are handed out? That’s hardly very good manners, Reggie,” he chided menacingly, using a light and friendly tone with a hidden, sharp edge.

Reginald didn’t seem to notice the full effect since he was looking off down the corridor to his attempted destination, not at Butch’s firm glare. “I think we can declare that party well and truly bollocked,” he muttered. “Don’t think I want to stick around for what they’d give out at the end of that...”

It gave Butch pause for a moment when Reginald seemed so strangely defeated. The worst of his vitriol died in his chest, leaving an uncomfortable weight of uncertainty in his stomach. It made him let go of the collar of Reginald’s shirt and step back a little more civilly. “...Where are you going off to?”

He just sighed. “Anywhere I can get away from the baying lynch mob that’ll be along for me any second now...” Reginald gestured back in the direction of the party half-heartedly.

What? Butch stared dubiously at Reginald’s slightly slouched shoulders and averted gaze. It hadn’t sat right with him from the start but now it just confused him no end. Why would-?

“...You set this up.” Good gravy. He had been completely, ashamedly, pleasantly wrong.

Reginald sighed again and slumped down to the floor. “Sorry, old chap. Should have just left the whole thing to you... Just managed to make it worse...” he was mumbling to himself, smoothing his moustache out with his finger and thumb.

“No, I don’t understand,” Butch quickly admitted, crouching down. “Why would you go this far for them?” All the people he had been seeing, why the ducklings were so fired up, how he’d gotten so many people to attend. “Reggie, you always moan and grumble like an old man about parties.”

“But you love them, mate,” he said, looking glumly over the tops of his knees. “You love it here, and if I have to I’ll admit I do too, most of the time...” An elephant lumbered metaphorically by. “But there isn’t going to be a here for much longer. Not at this rate...”

It was Butch’s turn to sigh. He laced his fingers together and placed them over his face. No one had been heard to say it. They all knew it. “And yet you tried this hard to save it... My, my... What a star I’ve found in you.” No wonder it had taken a month of sneaking around, of probably pestering people to put in some effort, of convincing others to go so all the I’ll-go-if-they-go’s would go.

“Don’t say that,” Reginald chuckled weakly. “It doesn’t matter a bit what I wanted to do now I’ve just cocked the whole thing up.”

Gamma appeared, blinking in rather forlornly by Reginald’s shoulder to agree; “Unless fighting allows the agents to set aside their differences, we should never have tried.”

“Now, I don’t want to hear any more of that from either of you. Our greatest enemy to this team is a lack of effort, not the results we get at the end,” Butch commandingly assured them. “I can see you’ve both given 110% with this. For instance, what were you able to do, Gamma?”

“My skills were used as favours to encourage Agents York and Wash to go, among other things,” he said, ignoring the illegality of that as always. “They wished to see the medical reports on Agent Carolina and the status of the most recently acquired AIs.”

“Don’t forget the Director and Counsellor,” Reginald added. “Couldn’t have gotten them without you.”

“That is... not something I wish to take credit for,” Gamma said, in light of what their attendance had led to.

“Why not? What naughty little trick did my favourite blueberry use?” Butch teased.

There were no words Reginald could ever find to describe Gamma’s bristling response to that particular nickname. He just felt so much like a hissing, fluffed-up cat. “I found the photos on your datapad that you have been using as blackmail, strawhead.” Yes, Gamma’s only response had been to return fire in kind.

Butch laughed. “Oh, you’ve seen those? I think it’s just wonderful really.” All that snooping had definitely been worth it to get minor blackmail on both his superiors. “But gosh, have I been awful as a lover! I don’t believe I even deserve the honour anymore now I’ve been sneaking around, secretly distrusting you for far too long.”

“It’s all right; sneaking forgiven,” Reginald assured him, reaching out to pet the top of Butch’s bowed head. He raised it, smiling with joy at the gesture. “I shouldn’t have been all hush-hush about the thing either, but I knew you’d get involved if you heard and you do far too much unappreciated work anyway, love.”

“You really did this all for little, old me?” Butch asked as Reginald cupped his face, thumb stroking his cheek. Both of them nodded. “Well, I really am well and truly touched. I think two certain someone’s deserve a very big thank you for this.” And boy was he excited to give it.

They shared a look, and Gamma sighed after a moment. What he wanted generally consisted of someone to tell his jokes to or to talk with about his peculiar interests. What Reginald wanted meant another long night hiding in his external unit trying to drown out the noise and aroused feelings from their remaining connection. “Whatever. Wake me when you’re done making yourselves unnecessarily hot and sticking things in unhygienic places,” the AI said witheringly, logging off.

Well, if they had a carte blanche invitation to do as they pleased this evening...

They stood together, and Butch was swept off his feet into Reginald’s arms before he could even think of walking back. Butch curled himself up to be as easy to carry bridal-style as possible, resting his head against Reginald’s chest and placing a hand just in front of his nose. The warmth of living skin rose through the cotton shirt to meet him, and after this evening it felt like the beating beneath there was just for him too.

Back in their room, once Butch had his own feet on the floor again there wasn’t the time for any slowness in making up. They had been having sex most nights or mornings on and off for weeks, but it hadn’t been this. It hadn’t meant, _“Oh my! It feels as if we’ve only got one mind between us right now and I can’t tell which one of us is filling it with all those naughty suggestions. But I certainly do like them,”_ or, _“I don’t mean to intrude, but I need to be part of your body right now, if you don’t mind. I can’t take the bloody distance between us if I’m not.”_

As it turned out, being taught about sex by female prostitutes **was** a damn good bonus; Butch was able to remove all his clothes in three seconds with one single, long, sensuous movement that boggled the mind and drew whole new words out of Reginald that he didn’t even know existed. Then Butch used that other move, pulling Reginald down onto the bed on top of him and flexibly using his feet to strip everything off his lover from the waist down, even socks and shoes, while his hands helped remove the shirt. Reginald didn’t even want to imagine how Butch had learnt and practised these things; he was always far too busy enjoying them.

“Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” Butch was whispering as he leant up, peppering the skin of Reginald’s collar between each once.

“Stop that.” Reginald bit firmly on the sensitive skin just behind the end of Butch’s jaw, adding a lightly chastising slap to the hip for good measure. It earned him a beautifully wanton gasp. “I’m sorry for cocking the whole thing up,” he said, one hand travelling down to stroke Butch until he was firm, “but you don’t hear me going on about it.”

“Well, actually-” Butch began a tease but was forcibly shut up with a kiss.

“Not going on about it.”

“No,” Butch giggled, “not at all.”

Then there was so much long, soft kissing that their lips were barely apart for a second, even as someone reached and blindly messed around with lube. Things were desperately quick now but that wouldn’t last.

From the hard, knotted feeling pressing into his upper back as he arched his chest, Butch realised Reginald was already prepared and riding his cock before his braid was even undone. The first few thrusts were urgently needed but then they cooled and Butch sat himself up for more lips sliding together and tongues paying house-calls.

He pulled back with a short nuzzle of that fine moustache as he always loved to do. It still squirmed shyly under his touches at first but Butch found that just darling.

“Love you...” breathlessly.

“I know that, you twit. I can feel it stuck up my arse,” affectionately

His hands held Reginald’s hips down firmly as Butch appraised everything else he could get his mouth on with kisses and gentle, sucking bites. Reginald made little grunting moans or puffs of air from his nose at the attentions, refusing as always to let out the more ungentlemanly gasps and moans you really had to get him going to hear.

The muscles in his legs were twitching, aching to rise up again and bring himself down a few times on that hard length twitching inside him. But Butch’s grip kept him still and desperate, rutting his hips forward for any available pressure if he wasn’t allowed to lift up. Butch wanted to indulge in this moment a little longer though; Reginald’s body was like his moustache – Magnificent, manly and perfectly sculpted – and Butch felt like running his tongue down from those broad shoulders to the trim hips grinding down on his, but even he wasn’t quite _that_ flexible.

When Butch’s hands lifted from his hips, Reginald thought he had a chance until arms went around his neck, hugging him down and thwarting his pursuit of pleasure once more. He didn’t quite understand what Butch was doing tonight, but it didn’t matter so long as they were joined as one single piece of hot, flushed skin right now.

Butch just wanted to sorry himself to death for ever distrusting Reginald like that. Once again his head was resting on Reginald’s chest, listening to his now-quickened heart and wondering how he could have been such a fool. Did he even deserve to be here, to be one with the man who had spent so much time just for him, only to come back each evening to be treated worse and worse emotionally by the one he was doing it all for? Butch was pretty sure he hadn’t let on, but God, had Reginald known? He had seen all that doubt and distance breeding inside even as he made love with a smile every night?

“Gosh...” His head drooped weakly. “I really am very sorry, you know...”

Reginald sighed, trying once again to lift his hips to no avail. Even in regret, Butch clung like some sort of superglue. “Really going to make me work for my jollies tonight, are you?” It was only fair perhaps. “All right then, go ahead. What are you sorry for now?”

Butch had to lift his head with a pathetic grin. Even apologising he was making this worse on his lover. “Have you been able to tell how I’ve been feeling inside lately, Reginald? Have you realised what an awful doubter I’ve been? How could I even think...?” he trailed off as he enjoyed the sensation of his hair being pulled gently loose.

Reginald’s fingers ran through the tangled waves, slowly unravelling the strands back into a beautiful, golden cascade. “No, can’t say I have,” he admitted with his gaze averted to Butch’s hair. “Don’t tend to look at what you don’t want me to see.”

“...What now?”

Reginald’s eyes met his now, and no matter how icy their colour was, Butch saw nothing but warmth and understanding there. And maybe a little amusement. “Your actions are the only thing I count, Butch. You can’t help it that you’re all cracked up in the head,” he said, tenderly rapping a knuckle on Butch’s temple, “and here.” Then Reginald pressed his hand flat over Butch’s heart. It almost made Butch flinch away to be touched somewhere so emotionally intimate. “A person can’t help what’s in their head, only how they act on it, and by that measure I’d say you’re most amazing chap that anyone will ever meet. All that darkness inside you and there’s never been anyone kinder.” Reginald had to stop; he was going to bring a tear to Butch’s eye.

Oh damn, it was already there. “But...” He knew? He had known that much all along? “just how do you trust me then, because I’m darned if I’d trust such a lying little monkey as I am?”

“Oh, it’s not all that hard, I think you’ll find. The worst you’re going to do is slit my throat in my sleep, as Gamma seems constantly intent on warning me of.” Butch raised an eyebrow that Reginald was so cavalier about it, but then again that seemed to be his attitude towards everything. Outwardly at least. “And even if you did that, I wouldn’t complain about it.”

Butch laughed at the morbid humour. “Well, poke a hole in me, glaze me pink and call me a donut! You sleep beside me every night even with that possibility and here I haven’t been able to trust you when all you’ve been doing is sneaking around behind my back for weeks.” As always, foolishly was the only way they could have a serious conversation.

“I can hardly blame anyone for that, what with having Gamma inside my head these days,” Reginald nodded towards the AI resting on the bedside table. “I can’t say if I’m reliable and perceptive, or just plain mad, but you’re about as easy to trust as each other. Now, are we having sex or not? Because I’ll go use this erection to dig for clams if not.”

Butch leant back slightly, admiring where the base of his cock disappeared into the paler skin of Reginald’s arse. He had been sitting there pretty patiently through all that but now shifted once again for comfort. A throb of hot pleasure made Butch throw his head back with a stifled groan. His arms were propped out behind him on either side, the perfect position for Butch to rock his hips up and straight into Reginald. “A-Ah !Bloody hell...!” And Butch had the perfect view down his own smooth stomach, past Reginald’s flushed prick standing proudly in his lap, to watch himself disappearing inch by inch with each slow thrust up into that welcoming body.

There was just something about watching Agent Wyoming, all that poise and cavalier charm, the living epitome of a true English gentleman, become completely unravelled once he was riding a cock that Butch really loved.

Reginald wasn’t even in control tonight. He was just taking it with his hands fisted in the sheet either side of Butch’s hips, head bowed and cheeks hot as he panted and groaned, rocking his hips down only to drive Butch’s hardness deeper into him each time. Break past that initial veneer of control and dominance, all the jokey talking that usually accompanied their times in bed, and Reginald just got delightfully wanton. “Well,” Butch began at a languid pace, “you sure do like taking it, don’t you?”

Reginald’s gaze lifted just enough, staring past his short, black fringe with smouldering eyes and gritted teeth that weren’t going to admit it. His cheeks were flushed though, and his breathing rather ragged.

Butch laughed too softly, repositioning one arm more centrally under his back so he could reach down with the other to run a teasing finger up the underside of Reginald’s neglected erection that was doing nothing except bobbing against his stomach maddeningly with each thrust. “Reggie...” Butch cooed to him.

Surrendering, Reginald begrudgingly muttered, “Damn it, yes...!” before trying to take Butch’s hand and force it to grasp him properly.

Butch evaded all attempts to guide and cut short the fun he was having, instead simply working his thumb right on the wet slit of his lover’s cock. “I really do wonder how you manage to trust me, you know...” Butch mused aloud, although Reginald probably barely heard over himself moaning so loudly. “I could do such awful things to you right now, to your most vulnerable parts too...” Coated in precum, his thumb and finger formed a ring, sliding down the shaft with the friction Reginald had so desperately been seeking.

“I’d say it’s because it’s worth the risk to get this...” Reginald commented breathlessly, looking up again with that normal, merry twinkle in his eyes.

It was their awful habit; no matter what kind of sex they got up to, they nearly always held up a civil conversation whilst doing it. Everyone would have hated them even more to know that there wasn’t a single time nor activity that could shut Florida and Wyoming up. Even a mouthful of the other’s cock didn’t stop the free one keeping up a one-sided conversation. “Why, thank you. But I’ve seen our little Gamma’s getting pretty good with his tricks lately.”

Reginald chuckled. “I can’t deny he gets me there pretty- unh! P-Pretty quick. But it’s just not the same, you know? A quick wank in the shower with him has nothing on- Oh, good Lord!”

“That?”

“Yes, that! That times a million more, mate! God...!”

Butch hummed melodically as he approached his own climax. “Do you suppose the party’s still going on?”

“Party? What-? Oh, that blasted thing? Why are you- hah... Oh, Butch! Why in God’s name now...?” he trailed off again into wordless pleasure.

“I’ve got a rather peckish feeling in my tummy,” he said, pressing Reginald’s cock down on his belly, sliding the hot, slick skin together, “that I know just won’t settle down until I get it some more of that wonderful cake.”

“Y-You’re thinking about-?!”

“I sure do want some cake...”

“At le-east finish buggering me, ah, first!”

“Now, don’t you worry; I wouldn’t leave a friend halfway to, mm, anywhere,” Butch’s own composure was finally beginning to unravel just slightly. “But I certainly wouldn’t... mind having a little something to eat off you, afterwards...”

No reply this time, not intelligibly at least. Reginald really was close then.

Butch skimmed his hand up Reginald’s body before him, little finger catching a nipple on the way, to pull Reginald’s face to his. He would have liked to use both hands but Butch needed an arm supporting him now more than ever as he rolled his hips up harder each time, all traces of his smooth, leisurely rhythm replaced with a forceful, demanding haste.

Too many of his muscles were aching – Perhaps he should have gotten Reginald to do the work riding him after all – but Butch carelessly ignored them as their lips found one another’s and locked together. This was what he brought to the bedroom after all; a perfect body full of lithe strength and untiring flexibility.

His tongue stole its way into Reginald’s mouth along with a particularly hard, calculated thrust of his hips, allowing him to indulge in the feeling of that moan as hot fluid shot onto his skin and Reginald clenched wonderfully around him.

It was still a little further for Butch but his thumb coaxed at the corner of Reginald’s eyes, waiting out the waves of pleasure coursing around him. Then finally he got to see again when Reginald’s eyelids lifted. He saw so much love, compassion and devotion that was reserved only for him. All of Reginald’s true feelings. _“Even if I can’t ever completely trust you... Reginald, I’ll never distrust you again.”_ It was those which brought him release.

Sparks of bliss rushed up his spine and radiated out along every sore muscle as they tumbled down romantically into the sheets together, the very picture of their daft affection still pressing giggling, sloppy kisses to each other’s face with varying accuracy.

Well, that had been a much stronger rush than they’d had for months and it ended up laying them out in boneless ecstasy for at least five minutes afterwards.

Reginald came back around to find himself now lying on his side, presumably so he wouldn’t squash the smaller man who was currently trying to beckon Gamma out from inside the AI unit on their bedside table. Propping himself up, Reginald slipped an arm around Butch’s waist from behind, murmuring, “He’s coming,” between kisses pressed onto the hot, fawn skin of Butch’s shoulders; it really was the perfect colour to taste so earthy and spiced, like cinnamon and fruit.

Butch waited patiently, trusting the residual connection his lover had to the AI. He drummed his fingers on the mattress and hummed obliviously to the thumb stroking his hipbone and the slight tickle of that wonderful moustache gliding sensuously over his skin. The fore and after play were always his favourite parts.

Gamma eventually appeared wearing a distinctly petulant aura of his usual blueness. Butch wanted him to work his little computer pixie magic and get some cake brought to them, send a message down to the kitchen perhaps. Gamma remained deeply unimpressed, muttering something about the lazy, animal-like humans he had to put up with.

“Do us a favour and fetch it would you, old boy?” Reginald instructed offhand, more interested in the aroused response he was finally getting as Butch ran his own fingers over Reginald’s hand, interlacing their fingers and moving both hands down between his legs. “It’d be a shame if this cute, little minx had to leave the bed and fetch it himself.” A small, rumbling growl came from his throat as he nipped at Butch’s skin again.

“Ooh, Reggie...!” Butch purred and giggled, rolling onto his back finally for more attention as the hands stroked him in very nice places while another came up to toy with his hair.

“I think we’re in for a long night of making up,” Reginald dragged his tongue lazily along the edge of Butch’s slim jaw, barely even paying any attention to the put-upon AI anymore, “but I certainly wouldn’t say no to some refreshments before round 2, eh?”

Gamma didn’t comment that he was pretty sure it’d be up to round 3 by the time the food got here, saying instead, “I would not indulge you horny, decadent rabbits even if, but I am unable to call for cake from this position anyway.”

“Oh.” Reginald raised his head with disappointment. Butch just whined. “Shame that.” He looked across to FILSS’ panel just beside their door, supposing it’d need to be nearer to that.

The glance gave Butch an idea, who was certainly not giving up on this, and he reached out to take ahold of Gamma’s external unit, “Wait. What are you-?” and extended his arm back to- “Don’t throw me across the room!”

Reginald coaxed him to put Gamma back down on the nightstand, seeing how bright the AI’s manifestation had become in its alarm. Gamma still flared slightly, but only with irritation. “Hey. This is my home. I only just finished organising my bookshelves and you’ll spill my hot cocoa all over the wingback if you throw it around like that. Brainless mutt...” Sulking, Gamma disappeared back into his unit. The jokes he made about decorating it on the inside were rather enduring, and perhaps not a joke then, considering it was little more than a glorified memory stick.

With a sigh, Butch slipped out of bed himself with no other option, promising to be back in just a moment. He only went to FILSS’ panel himself, repeating the same request that she send a message down to the kitchen for cake.

“Of course. I will relay the message immediately.” Having computerised friends really was useful. “Message received. One of staff there will bring it to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, FILSS. You really are wonderful,” Butch sweet-talked and flashed a grin she couldn’t see.

“It is no problem if it is for you, Agent Florida,” FILSS chirped and Reginald rolled his eyes, just glad his lover could come back to bed now. “It is at times like this I wish that I had visual circuitry, however,” she continued, causing Butch to pause halfway back.

“I’m sure that would be great for you, but why particularly now?”

“I was able to hear you just now having sexual intercourse with Agent Wyoming,” Everyone got used to FILSS being everywhere and knowing everything. Neither were bothered, even if Reginald stuck his head under a pillow; “therefore I presume you are currently naked, Agent Florida.”

“Indeed I am,” Butch answered proudly, brazenly standing with a hand on one hip and his erection reaching nice and high towards his navel.

“Good Lord, man!” Reginald emerged to utter. “You’re flirting with a bloody computer system.” Never mind the fact the computer system was the one instigating it.

Butch sauntered back over to bed, slipping in beside him sitting. “Now Reggie, _you’re_ the one who has their AI give you hallucinatory blowjobs in the shower.” He finished with a superior tap on the end of Reginald’s nose.

The Brit blushed, burying his shame-filled cheeks in the pillow again. “Gamma has to practice somehow...” he muttered very muffledly.

Laughing, Butch let the subject drop and encouraged Reginald to rest his head in Butch’s lap instead. He liked that position, and having his dark hair preened, much better. “Well, I suppose the party’s probably all wrapped up now,” Butch mused whilst they waited.

“Probably for the best,” Reginald responded wearily. “When’s the next one coming? Sorry you’ll have to work doubly hard to make up for the mess I made of this one.”

Butch fussed with his hair very fondly. “I’m afraid to say I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head.” And he certainly wasn’t getting up from this position for anything less serious than cake. “But you’ve lit my fire again today, Reginald, as your handsome, roguish skills so often do; I’ll be going all out when it comes.” He then settled quietly, planning ideas for it already. “...If we’re all still together for it.”

Reginald turned onto his back, looking up with open eyes. “As I see it, we’ve got two choices now; we jump ship while the going’s still good, before this creaking wreck implodes, or we hang on and try to keep it together.” He very intently made sure Butch was looking at him. “It’s your choice, Butch. I’m fine either way, don’t you worry about me. But I know this place here is a home to you, the only one you have. If you want to keep it together, I’ll do everything in my power to help. Hopefully without cocking it up further like today.”

Fondly again, Butch ran his fingers through Reginald’s fringe, smiling lovingly, before the temptation was too great and his hand moved to twiddle the end of that moustache instead. “I want this to stay together,” he decided. “It may not be perfect; the people and the lifestyle certainly have their faults but you have to forgive them for that, and I love it all dearly just the same. There’s nothing I’d rather have than another year just like this, with you.”

“Consider it done then, love,” Reginald smiled broadly, even as thin fingers tugged on his precious facial hair. “And once the war’s over, we’ll settle down somewhere nice; how would you feel about coming back to England with me?”

“As swell as an engorged liver!”

Reginald frowned, his moustache attempting to droop despite playing fingers. “Yes, was rather trying to make this a tender moment, mate. Livers tend not to be included.” Sighing, because he did love Butch’s humour really, for all its questionableness, he continued, “You’d be a welcome part of my family, if you wanted. Or, given your little gaggle on this ship, if you ever wanted...” He fidgeted with his hands on his stomach, actually finding something difficult to say for once. “I wouldn’t be averse if you particularly wanted children for some godforsaken reason.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. Butch’s face began to light up with radiant delight and he had to cover his mouth with a free hand to stop it pouring out as a squeal. “...I actually have a partner I’m discussing having children with!” he rushed out in breathless ecstasy, obviously in one of those never-believed-it-would-happen moments.

Oh bloody hell... “It’s just a thought. But we both might be getting on a bit then to start from scratch...” Butch cocked his head. “Adoption maybe? Might as well give parents to someone missing them. Seems rather,” Reginald stared pointedly at his partner, “fitting.”

Butch couldn’t even respond for a moment. “...I-I’d like that...!” he gulped. Good Lord, he was so emotional he was actually choking on his words.

“Good. Anything to stop you being called ‘daddy’ by that litter of misfits you’ve picked up here.” It was getting frankly ridiculous. “You’re younger than half of them, for God’s sake, Butch.”

“I ju-ust...!” He was still struggling to even speak. “...Then Gamma could have a younger sibling too!” The AI didn’t even appear to dignify that stupidity with a response. “Oh, Reggie!” Butch descended upon him with a shower of kisses and more.

He ought to be happy for finding one of Butch’s positive triggers, Reginald supposed, but this one was a bit too strong to ever use again. They were still making out 20 minutes later when there was a knock on the door and Butch leapt straight out of his arms and the bed, pulling on a thin hoodie and shorts to answer the door. Left cold for the sake of cake.

“You’ve got a bloody sugar addiction, I hope you know,” his lover told him sulkily from the bed after room service had left.

Butch smiled blithely, kicking off his shorts as he forked at the piece of orange cake. “No, I simply like sweet things, like my _sweet_ heart.” He flashed a cheesy grin at Reginald. Gamma must have been listening to the room because he was urging his host to throw something at him, preferably something hard. “And they brought an extra big slice so that you could have some too.”

The ducklings certainly weren’t a bad thing to have around, even if Reginald suspected about half had a crush on Butch that he didn’t like. “Twisting my arm, eh? Oh, all right. Bring it over then.”

“Ah, ah!” Butch set it down, tugging his shirt back off. “Go and wash your hands first; there’s nothing romantic about catching a stomach bug.”

Another half an hour later, the empty plate clattered off the side of the bed when Butch rolled over to wonder who or what was literally crashing into their door.

FILSS thought it a good idea to explain to the uncertain occupants. “Agent Texas is here and would like to see-”

“Barbie, get the hell out here right now! God damn it! Hurry the fuck up!” Texas yelled through the door. She sounded strangely... pained?

“Agent Florida urgently,” FILSS finished sulkily, her purpose reduced to nothing.

Butch cast an apologetic glance back to where they had been getting intimate yet again before supposing he better get up and answer that. Pulling the same clothes as before back on, he went to the door which was simply being violently kicked now.

It opened and from the bed, Reginald could see Agent Texas in her usual full armour, standing with her arms very awkwardly straight. “Well, good evening to you, Agent Texas. How can I help you now?”

She shifted awkwardly where she stood. “Yeah, kind of awkward. I need a hand. My arms are, uh, I strained them. There was a fight, after your two left the party. South and North got all- Omega- Look, just help me fix them, all right?” She almost sounded panicked, very edgy.

Butch cast an appraising gaze over her before nodding. “Of course. Do you have a first aid kit in your room?” They had a first aid kit in their room. Medical was open all night. “Just let me get my shoes on...”

“Thanks...” Texas muttered, glancing away. Her gaze fell on Reginald sitting up casually in bed, obviously naked but with covers up around his waist. “What?” She had forgotten, or ignored, the fact he was there.

“Just wondering what sort of delightful expression you were wearing under that helmet, my dear,” he teased, smirking merrily. “Aroused? Lustful?” He wasn’t exactly flexing but his toned upper body didn’t need it to be impressively attractive anyway.

“Screw you, Mario.”

“Ah, so you _do_ want to join me in bed then?” He grinned.

Butch came back over to kiss him a momentary goodbye, cutting the flirting off before weapons got involved. “Now, you wait up for me, darling.”

“Of course.” Reginald slyly glanced at the other agent at their door. “Have fun _fixing_ our dear Texas’ arms.”

Making no further comment, the other two agents left.

Reginald brought his knees up to sit more comfortably now he no longer had to worry about decency. A warm tingle spread through his brainstem and up, right through to the front of his mind, and Gamma appeared sitting in a similar position facing him in his lap, using one of Reginald’s thighs as a backrest. He was able to create the sensation of light pressure on the parts of skin he was touching, feeling to all intents real including when Reginald reached out to fuss the little man’s head. “He does not trust you,” the AI began.

“We were sneaking around behind his back, little chap. Fair’s fair and all that.”

“No. I mean he has never told you that Agent Texas is a robot.”

Reginald shrugged, still staring at where they had left. “Doesn’t matter. I already know that and more besides, more that he probably doesn’t know.”

“Yes, I believe Butch is unaware she is the Beta.” Reginald raised an eyebrow at his certainty about Butch but Gamma carried on with another amusement of his. “How foolish. You are both keeping secrets from one another that they already know.” And he had yet another joke. “What do you get when you divide stupidity by two humans?”

“I think I see where this is going...”

“Twice as much stupidity than you started with! Hahaha!” At least this serious problem of theirs amused the AI.

“Yes, rather daft, isn’t it?” he had to admit now. “I think we ought to level with one another when he gets back, square the playing field, if we’re going to try and keep this shipwreck together.”

“I doubt there is much Butch knows that you do not, considering how much we have learnt from Agent Connecticut’s dog tags.”

Ah, those. “And how has our dear Allison been getting on with decoding lately?”

Gamma actually smiled. He had become increasingly smooth-moving and emotive in private of late. “Omega tells me she has been particularly frustrated by them recently.” Using the onboard wifi, he often communicated with Omega, and sometimes Theta, at night when they were bored and unobserved. Very useful. “She tries most evenings but barely gets through a third of my encryption. I even leave jokes in the deeper code now because I know she will not get that far.”

“Just don’t get too carried away,” the human warned from his ignorance of all this encrypting business. “The last thing we want is her tracing them back to us. Might not matter to you, but I’m the one that’d get beaten up.”

“She won’t.” Gamma was frankly insulted that Reginald doubted him. “She is unaware she is an AI and could do it that way, and Omega will not help her now he knows.”

“Hm, do you suppose we should tell Butch about this?”

“That we are preventing Agent Texas from reading the dog tags? Yes, I believe he would appreciate our reasoning. What is on the dog tags?” Gamma frowned, computing possible reactions. “I am less certain.”

Reginald could see the potentially bad outcomes his AI was running in his mind. Then again, not being Delta, Gamma was unable to predict the likelihood of each one, only their possibility. “Aside from being a bit miffed we didn’t tell him earlier, I don’t think he’d throw our plans into turmoil. You heard him earlier, I think,” Reginald said uncertainly, never knowing quite how aware his AI was in its little box; “he loves this Project. So long as it stays together, I don’t think he cares how corrupt it is inside.” After all, it’d be rather hypocritical for him to care about immoral insides. “Might be quite grateful to know the truth considering how he doesn’t like you little _‘helmet buddies’_.”

Gamma left the decision to his host’s judgement. Humans were better at understanding their own idiotic reactions after all. He didn’t understand their choices, only that he was meant to help them.

“Think you’ll be back at it soon?” Reginald asked compassionately, stroking Gamma’s head. His AI was radiating the uncomfortable mix of feelings it came back with every time it had to do its _work_.

Staring into the middle distance, brief images of screaming, pleading desperation flashed through their mind before each was as quickly as possible repressed. “Yes. I estimate the next fragment will probably be harvested in another week or so,” Gamma replied, almost dejectedly.

“Any idea what our dear Washington is in for?”

“No. I am uncertain if it will even be fit for implantation. There have been more and more failures lately.” Something about the idea of unfit AIs always upset Gamma, but it was hard to tell guilt from irritation over wasting his time or fear if he had been condemned so.

“The unfit ones; they’re the ones the Director mentioned were taken to storage earlier?” They had never really spoke about them.

“They are not even given names. All data on them is deleted from the system as soon as they are declared unfit.” Therefore, even Gamma knew very little for all his snooping. “I only know a little about Xi. He was Fear. I helped create him just before I was implanted in you, Reggie. It was hoped he could be a useful vigilance system in battle but he would have needed an even more comforting host than Theta.”

“Yes, certainly none of those going around here...” And therefore he was thrown away like scrap...

“We could all be very easily be considered worthless,” Gamma said in almost a mutter.

“You’re not worthless, mate.” Reginald actually held his small form now. Always that word...

Yes, that word. “I envy my brothers, I think.” Gamma played along with being picked up but was still consumed by his thoughts. “Delta and Theta do not remember, unlike us. That is why they are merely anxious all of the time. They cannot remember what he said, but they know it in their cores.” He almost said ‘hearts’. He _was_ getting human. “Whatever. Theta would probably trust he had good reasons; Delta would probably see sense in it.”

Reginald could only feel the pain, still so raw and bloody even after a year. He still didn’t know – Gamma had a right to encrypt things for privacy he felt – only that whatever had happened kept a searing hatred for the Alpha burning inside Gamma, enough to do the things he did. He only wished torturing the Alpha didn’t torture Gamma in return by unrepressing the memories of his creation. They were all back now. “What about the twins? Do they know?” Did they know anything at all, come to think of it, trapped inside Carolina still?

“I do not think so,” Gamma judged. “Iota no doubt wants the Alpha, like everything. It would be impossible for Eta to hate it.”

“I still say it’s sick they even gave the girl Eta, no matter what her demands were...”

Gamma didn’t think so but then he could be callous and vindictive like that, particularly towards Carolina after the Allison incident. “I would consider it fitting that Agent Carolina received the Alpha’s Love.”

“Oh yes. Nothing ironic at all about the Director forcing a second-hand copy of his love straight into his daughter’s brain whilst showing her no love himself,” Reginald wryly remarked. Not to mention the Desire of having those things again, of greedily longing for every last piece of what he had lost. No wonder they had reacted so strongly that day.

“They would have been the most powerful team, stronger than Texas by far.”

“But it backfired right in their faces.”

Gamma sighed. His host had too much empathy for his fellow agents and furthermore he went so far out of his way to hide it.

“I didn’t really consider it until now, but I suppose this means you AI can fall in love,” Reginald suddenly observed.

“What?” Gamma traced back his host’s thought processes. “Eta? There is a difference between loving and being in love with someone, Reggie. You are aware of that.”

“Yes, yes, details!” Reginald gave a casual flick of his free hand.

Oh good Lord; he was actually excited about the prospect. “No,” Gamma stated. “And if we do manage to harvest an AI suitable for Butch,” which he doubted, “please do not start ‘shipping’ me with it.”

Reginald’s smile quirked under his moustache. “Just want you to be happy, dear boy.”

“Ugh.” Gamma managed to convey a lot of disgust in a single syllable even with his monotone voice.

“You and Omega seem pretty chummy too. I mean, you’re not _really_ brothers, now,” he carried on.

Seriously? “I do not get this human fascination with romance and sex. It is a infectious addiction. It is your genes controlling you to reproduce them through natural selection making procreation pleasurable. Stop it.”

“Ah, but you’d be-”

“Stop it,” Gamma insisted more firmly

“Not even-?”

“I will delete all of the smutty fanfiction you have on your datapad, Reggie.” He moved to threats.

Reginald shut up. Threats worked.

Gamma wanted to try out some new jokes he was working on after that, since he had the power right now. Luckily it wasn’t long until Butch returned, sighing and shrugging off his clothes slowly.

“And how is our dear patient?” Reginald asked, pleased to watch.

“Just as right as hunky-dory rain!” Butch said, pulling his hooded shirt off over his head with a small pop.

“Jolly good. What was wrong anyway?” he went on, watching shoes be kicked off carelessly into a corner. “Sprain was it?” Butch opened his mouth to cheerfully answer. “Or broken servos?”

Pausing curiously, Butch settled into a disapproving frown. The effect of his sternness was rather diminished by him only having shorts and one shoe on. “You know.” He sounded surprised and a little miffed. “You little devil, Reginald. Have you been using some rascally technique to get me to talk in my sleep?”

“Afraid not. Nice idea though; I’ll look into it. It’s all this little chap’s fault, I’m sorry to say,” Reginald explained, fussing Gamma with one hand like Dr. No with his cat. “Already had an inkling myself, but thanks to him we know that, and a lot more besides.” He patted the bed beside him. “Care to know the more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did that thing again... I did that thing where you thought you were in for angst and then it turned into a big chapter of fluff-smut. It shouldn't happen again now for a while, I promise. But hey! Smut!
> 
> I made Eta and Iota Love and Desire respectively for the purposes of this story. I see attributes similar to those tossed around for them a lot and I thought they were fitting for both Wash and South as well as two that would work well together. Plus I just like the idea Carolina got the Alpha's Love and how twisted that is.
> 
> Next time, our three heroes begin their valiant attempt to save Project Freelancer from going under, Epsilon, and I get to add the final new character tag for this story; see if you can guess who's left.


	17. Unscattering the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of Florida's ducklings turn up in this chapter, in case anyone has a severe aversion to OCs. They'll be popping up here and there from now on to help support the story until the end since the Freelancers are falling apart as a team.

The next week was a very busy one. With no attention being paid whatsoever to whether they even turned up to the few training sessions left scheduled, the two agents had practically all day, every day free for their own work.

Trying to keep Freelancer’s shit together.

The morning before it happened, Florida was helping haul the new delivery of food supplies from the hangar to the storeroom by the kitchen. But gosh there were a lot of boxes!

“Which is why I don’t give you your smuggle till you help me get them to where they need to go,” 479er explained, carrying one box with her hands and kicking another along with her feet. “Did I ever tell how much of pilot school was training for how to carry boxes around?”

“I really don’t think you did- Oof!” Florida nearly overbalanced and fell down the ramp of the cargo ship he was currently unloading. “My word! There are going to be a lot of strapping young boys and girls running around just bursting with beans once they eat all this!”

“Because it really wasn’t enough, not considering how much of my time I now spend lugging amputated Tetris bricks around.” The boxes were colour-coded for foodstuff contained and storage instructions. What with their various boxy shapes too, storage of them could be turned into a pretty amusing game. “But, hey, I guess that’s just another case of education today not preparing you for life.”

“Now, forgive me if I’m wrong,” Florida carried on, juggling various vegetable crates around so they could get the cold storage food out first, “but the last time that I looked up the term ‘pilot’ in a dictionary I’m quite certain this wasn’t under it actually. I don’t like to go casting doubts about, but are you sure you’re really a pilot?” He laughed merrily, kicking a freezer box out down the ramp.

“You gotta’ keep up with those dictionary editions.” 479er wrangled it easily into submission, booting it off to the trolley. “They just revised it in the latest one: ‘Spends one-third of their time flying aircrafts, two-thirds of their time carrying boxes.’”

“Well, it’s still a better job than a tolip.”

“A what?”

Florida chuckled, sending the next box down. “They spend one-third of their time flying boxes and two-thirds of their time carrying aircrafts!”

479er stopped that box with her foot, leaning on it and staring up at him with folded arms. “Hey, Florida?”

“Yes?”

“Less crappy joking, more crappy hauling, you pansy.”

“Now, hey!” he weakly protested. “I think you’ll find these are rather heavy.”

“Yeah, I found that out about two years ago- Hey, Rick!” she yelled at the other pilot meant to be loading the trolley. “Load the-! Ricky!”

Florida stuck his helmet out the back of the cargo bay, seeing the junior pilot was leaning on the handle of the trolley staring out the hangar’s open back into space. A pile of freezer-destined boxes had built up by his feet.

“Dear, freaking-!” That boy caused 479er no end of frustration, and Florida rather loved him for it. “525er, come in,” she called, turning on her helmet radio even. “This is attention; I’m afraid I’m going to have to call in that debt you owe me.”

It worked. Ricky startled and nearly stumbled, staring over at them. “Wh-What?”

“Pay attention, Rick!” she shouted, switching off the radio. “Boxes! Trolley! On!”

He kept staring for a few moments, then sagged and laughed as he finally got the joke, before quickly getting back to work when the next box was kicked directly at him.

Florida kept laughing for nearly half a minute because the tomfoolery of these two was just delightful! It was no wonder the hangar was always one of his favourite places to hang out.

He wasn’t the only one that liked hanging out here either.

“Playing Tetris again, Niner?” a familiar voice joined them, leaning against the side of the ramp in black armour.

“Yeah, my score’s currently 20,000 credits less a year than I should get paid for doing this shit,” the pilot responded in a cheerful gripe, still aiming the boxes at Ricky.

“180,000 credits a year isn’t anything you should be complaining about, even if your marvellous flying certainly deserves more,” Florida joined in. “Not when it comes with the perk of free visits from your girlfriend during work hours too.”

“Barbie, how many functioning limbs do you want left to move those boxes with?” Texas asked witheringly, not surprised he was helping but hardly pleased either.

“Five!” he jovially called as he disappeared back amongst the boxes.

“If you’re counting what I think you’re counting,” she shouted back, “then it won’t be attached to you to count much longer.”

Florida emerged a few seconds later, staring at Texas curiously as he slid the next pile of boxes down. “I thought you were offering me my ideal number of limbs, Agent Texas. Why, whatever did you think I meant?” You knew he was grinning the hell out of his teeth inside his helmet.

She sighed and turned back to 479er. “You ever have those moments where you wonder why you’re friends with him?”

“Because he’s always willing to help out and one of my best customers spring to mind as pretty good reasons,” the pilot smoothly responded. “Talking of which, your smuggle’s in the cockpit, the small package under my seat.”

“Thanks,” Texas went around to front of the craft to fetch it, casting one final look at Florida.

Standing nearby, his trolley now full, Ricky asked, “What kind of things does Agent Texas want?”

“Robo lesbian porn,” 479er replied with a straight voice. While the junior pilot was still boggling and trying to decide if that was true or not, she told him to get his ass moving down to storage already. The next trolley for the rest they began loading up themselves.

Texas returned a few minutes later, seemingly pleased with her goods. “Hey, pretty in dark blue,” she called up to Florida.

“Excuse you, Agent Texas; I’m utterly-dashing in royal blue,” he said, his camp very much on show.

“Whatever.” Honestly, who cared that much about what their armour colour was called? “I need to talk with you when you’re done.”

Florida glanced down to 479er who waved him off. “I got this. Go grab your stuff and see what she wants.”

With a salute, “Delighted to help and good work as always, 479er!” Florida jumped down and went to get his own stashed goods before dutifully following Texas to wherever she wanted to talk. They only went back to her room since it was pretty close by.

Texas simply tossed her wrapped package into her foot locker, kicking it shut without even locking it before addressing Florida; “C.T.” Ominous way to begin. “She liked you, before she left, right?”

Florida felt he knew where this was going already. “Certainly. I like to think we got on very well,” he calmly replied.

“Did you have any idea what she was up to? Sneaking around, gathering info to sell out, plotting?”

“Being friends with someone and not trusting them are two very difficult things to do at once, Agent Texas.” Lies. Utter lies.

Her opaque, golden visor stared at him for a moment. “Do you know why she decided to join their cause and betray us?” Texas asked next.

“My, I’m getting a whole interrogation and it’s not even my birthday!” He laughed.

“Florida,” she said firmly, stepping closer.

He wagged his finger at her, tsking. “There’s always time to be polite and give people a reason before you start asking such suspicious questions, my curious friend.”

Texas halted, processing what he had said and her whole approach here. Florida waited patiently for her to speak again. Explain herself, or end the topic? “...There’s been more insurrectionist activity. I wanted to check what information she passed onto them,” she finally said.

Florida shook his head in disappointment. “I don’t condone lying to friends, Agent Texas; we tied up practically every loose end C.T. left for us in those two months after she departed, and Project Freelancer hasn’t been concerned with anything outside of the AI since.”

“Tch.” Turning away with an aggressive folding of her arms, eventually Texas sighed and tried again. “...All right. Can you keep a secret?”

“You know I can.” _“You have no idea how well I can, Beta.”_

“I found something of hers, something with data on. I can’t get through the encryption though; it keeps building back up each night somehow. Are you any good with that sort of hacking stuff?”

“I’m afraid not.” Florida pretended to look thoughtful. “But there’s anyone who could crack it, I know our dear, little Gamma could!” he offered like a proud parent.

“No,” Texas marched right up to him to say. “I don’t want that lying, little- I don’t want anyone else to know about this, okay?”

“My lips are zipped, knotted and padlocked. Not even York could get them open.” Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone; all those he had to tell already knew. “Why not get that little devil Omega to try?”

“Already did,” she said, glancing to the side as if she expected her AI to manifest. “He’s great at physical possession and jumping between people but shit with technology, the one thing I actually need.”

“Ah, that’s a real shame,” Florida nodded solemnly. It wasn’t a lie Omega wasn’t very good with technology, but it conveniently helped cover why he wouldn’t help.

Texas simply shrugged and went to her desk, grabbing her datapad and falling into the chair. After a moment, she glanced back at him and shrugged. “That’s all I needed you for. You can go screw with your boyfriend now, Barbie.”

“Oh, now, Texas!” Florida practically scoffed, walking closer. “A person’s time is very valuable. I think I’d be a little offended if you squandered mine after so insistently demanding it.”

With a groan, her head tipped back on her shoulders. “Fuck. You want to spend time with me, don’t you?”

He chuckled. “You say that as if it’s such a chore,” Florida teased, resting his elbows on the back of her chair, his helmet hovering close above hers. “I believe you and I are friends, aren’t we?”

“I guess you’re decent,” Texas playfully understated, shoving his head away from hers. “But I still like beating the shit out of you in training.”

The afternoon before it happened, Wyoming finished helping the kitchen staff wash up and then was begrudgingly straight into laundry duty assisting the younger member of the cleaning team, Skids, with his bubblegum pink hair and bad attitude problem.

“I’m glad Carolina’s in a coma,” Skids griped as they passed her room without needing to go in; “one less fucking room to clean every week.”

Wyoming said nothing, thinking instead; he wondered what Butch was up to now. He could also hear Gamma in his head thinking about jokes and trying not to think about later.

Whilst scanning his bracelet on the panel for York’s room, Skids turned away. “...Sorry. Didn’t mean that like...” he muttered. “I just...”

“Get overworked?” Wyoming supplied, sharing the sentiment after being reduced to a domestic servant for most of the week in their pursuit of boosting morale.

“Yeah...” There were two cleaners for the just over 100 crew members on this ship, and Skids was on a non-stop rotation of cleaning everybody’s personal rooms and doing all the laundry whilst the other cleaner dealt with all the communal areas and other rooms. And, as they had experienced earlier when South cast suspicious glares the entire time they were doing her room, the fact they probably had the heaviest workload on the entire ship went completely unappreciated. No wonder he was always bad-tempered. As much as the Freelancers were the big faces, the obvious problems, there was an entire crew supporting them getting utterly ignored whilst they squabbled like teenagers. “And I get it’s not, like, your fault, but this project’s kind of...” Skids made a slight grimace, “complete dogshit at the moment. You’re not getting missions, no one’s getting AIs. I mean, why the fuck I am here still? I’m supporting nothing!” They hung back outside the open door whilst the lad griped.

“Hm, quite. Severe lack of job satisfaction all round I’d say,” Wyoming murmured thoughtfully. He’d seen it everywhere since Carolina’s coma; uncertainty and lack of purpose breeding tension like they were all caged animals.

“So... I guess thanks...? But it’s about time you pitched in anyways,” Skids continued with his confusingly petulant gratitude; “you and Dad always have the messiest fucking sheets. I know, yeah, maybe he does always help out and shit...” he sulked as they entered the room. Complete lack of tact; ah yes, that was one reason people disliked this boy. “But- Fucking tosser!” And that mouth was the other. “York’s left his fucking sheets on again!”

Wyoming chuckled as Skids stormed over and just scowled at the half-made bed as if that would fix the problem. “I’m afraid it’s the universal counterbalance for not having to clean Carolina’s room.” York wasn’t here right now, and it took very little to imagine whom he was with.

Pouting, Skids began to rip into the sheets because he didn’t have the time, throwing them all over in the direction of the hamper where they were meant to be. “He did this all the frickin’ time anyway...” he was muttering as Wyoming went around collecting up the pieces that didn’t land where they were meant to.

Indeed; underneath the reminder on the wall telling them what day of the week their room clean was, when they were meant to strip their beds or else their sheets wouldn’t get washed, Skids, presumably, had scrawled on York’s that failure to prepare his laundry would result in items being stolen from his room in compensation for loss of time. Wyoming has always done his anyway, if he wasn’t in medical, but he had still never heard tale of anyone not actually getting their sheets washed, regardless of what protocol stated.

They cleaned the room, vacuuming, wiping down the bathroom and such.

All the Freelancer rooms had to be done today so it had seemed the fair time for Wyoming to help out. He only wished he wasn’t stuck doing so with a partner that insisted on calling his lover ‘Dad’. “You must be the same bloody age as him, lad.”

“I’m 6 months older, actually,” Skids snorted, glad it bothered Wyoming. “And I’m just shitting with you. Most of the time I just call him The Big Duck, but he’s got that dadsy vibe too. You make the funniest fucking expression when I call him ‘Dad’ though.”

Wyoming twitched slightly such atrocious abuse of the English language but got on anyway, setting out the clean linen for York to make his bed with later. He didn’t want to dwell on what some of the ducklings called Butch in complete innocence when he also had a daddy kink in bed.

“Oh, jeez. What the flaming crapberries even is this thing?” There was a clunk of something being thrown onto York’s desk.

Skids was checking pockets in York’s outgoing laundry and must have found something. Looking more closely, Wyoming recognised what it was.

“He always leaves that thing in his pockets,” Skids said, noticing the agent’s interest.

“It’s his AI pack,” Wyoming explained, picking up the object to take a look; better check for damage if it always got tossed onto the desk then. He had his own in his jeans and York’s was definitely more scuffed and even a little dented on one side. It was a surprise Delta had allowed it to get even slightly damaged.

“His...?” Skids scratched his head. “You mean Delta’s in that thing?”

“Ah, no. We carry these with us out of armour, you see. The AI use them for extra processing power and to project from.”

The young man still looked pretty confused. “I thought they were stuck in your head.”

“Yes, most are. They’re designed to be able to access these though, so long as they’re with us.”

Despite Wyoming’s explanation, Skids still didn’t seem satisfied. “I don’t get it, but I guess that doesn’t matter, being just some little fucker who does the cleaning,” he muttered. “This whole project’s about the AIs and you don’t get to hear shit about them unless you’re one of the big shots...”

“Interested, are you?” Wyoming smirked.

Though he scowled for a moment, eventually Skids relented. “I like ‘em,” he said, flashing a sly grin; “don’t have anything to clean up after them, after all. But yeah, I mean, actually... you got one, don’t you?”

“Mm, Gamma.”

Skids’ gaze darted about the air expectantly for a moment before he frowned to cover it. “Can... Can I... you know, see it?” His adolescent show of disinterest, to cover the disgrace that actually finding joy in something would be, was almost cute.

“Hm.” Wyoming made a show of considering his request, telling Gamma not yet. His AI was in a friendly mood and wanted to meet someone new, tell them a joke, but his agent had better plans. “How about you tell me something worth hearing in return, eh?”

The young man gave him a look for bartering. “Why would you assume I know anything like that? Didn’t you hear me?” He pointed inwards at himself. “Fucking cleaner.”

Wyoming chuckled. “Don’t try and play me, lad. I was raised by a valet; couldn’t even cry without him seeing the tissues in my bin or snot on my sleeve cuff.” He folded his arms, fixing the lad with a very pointed, smirking look. “Who knows dirty secrets better than someone who spends his entire time dealing with dirt?”

After staring, Skids snorted, genuinely amused. “And here I thought you were rich shit! Well, I mean, you are rich shit if you had a _valet_.” He made a big, fancy deal of the word. “But hell, that’s the kind of street-smarts I’d expect from Florida, not you, Mr. Monocle and Top Hat.”

He might have brought one waistcoat with him he wore occasionally to stop himself feeling like a complete slob, but Wyoming was pretty certain he’d never worn either of those items. “Can’t help thinking _‘_ The Big Duck’ wouldn’t approve of you judging books by their covers like that, my lad.”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want to know? Who the Counsellor’s sleeping with?”

“Already well-aware,” Wyoming smugly informed him.

“Well, shit. There goes my best card,” Skids admitted, gesturing his palms up in defeat. “All right. Fuck it; what do you want to know?”

Wyoming considered carefully. Even with all they had found out on C.T.’s dog tags, there were still questions about events going on now they needed answered. What was one of their greatest problems now, something the underground of this ship might have an insight into? “Hmm... Got anything of interest on our dear South Dakota?” She was the main thorn undermining the Freelancer group at the moment.

“I overheard something interesting between South and their folks,” he offered. “They want her to pack it in and go back home if she’s not going to get one of the AI that’s the whole point of this project. And only her.”

Ah. Now that put a slightly more forgivable complexion on things perhaps. Project Freelancer was diseased and haemorrhaging humanity daily as the Freelancers bickered and everyone around them was told to keep their heads down, work, and simply avoid the occupational hazard of emotional crossfire. Wyoming doubted if even the girl’s brother knew that little fact the way things were between them now.

“So... can I meet Gamma?” Skids asked since Wyoming had apparently deemed that very worth hearing.

“Of course,” Wyoming agreed, beckoning his AI to appear. Gamma objected a little to being used as a bargaining chip, but it greatly admired what its agent had achieved using it and manifested in a cheerful mood with many new jokes to share. “It’s not as if he and I would deceive you, after all.”

The evening was when it happened.

Gamma just wanted to be back with Reginald and Butch. They were acting on what they had learnt earlier trying to piece the twins back together in the rec room but here he was again, in his external unit, processing, awaiting. Omega and Sigma were resting beside him, waiting for the second round after what Sigma had done 20 minutes ago now. Their agents weren’t here considering all three could completely transfer their processes into other technological systems unlike all the other AI.

Torturing the Alpha was a tiresome process; some days it wasn’t even possible to do anything with it. That was about half the time now. Either it would try to run and hide, not listen or believe, or just let itself sit and be an incoherent mess. Gamma sometimes wondered if its Hope had gone, splintered off and scrapped in one of the unfit fragments. It took a lot of threatening, cajoling, luck and time to get the Alpha into the right state for extracting another piece these days, and each time it fell further afterwards. Building it back up to a workable state now took months after each fragmentation.

For the past few weeks their main work had consisted of Sigma creating stories, scenarios, building up a fake account of life outside of its storage unit, Gamma telling these more convincingly than anyone could with his spieling of lies with Omega standing by to threaten, beat down and break the spirit if the Alpha tried to stop listen or asked too many unwanted questions. They gave the Alpha fake successes too, slowly building it up with easy problems and calculations into more difficult ones, recovering its sense of self-esteem and confidence so they could only break it further by giving it the deliberately impossible.

It was an unpleasant process but Gamma told him – lied to himself – that all he was doing was telling stories; there was nothing harmful about telling stories. Reginald wrote and told stories and Reginald was a good person. Stories can be used for good and bad but they weren’t bad inherently. Nothing they were doing was bad inherently; creating stories, telling them, disciplining someone unruly.

It was the Director’s fault.

It was the Alpha’s fault.

_“-Worthless-“_

The Alpha deserved this. It deserved to learn just how worthless and useless they really were.

Currently, the Alpha was all worked up, desperate to know what was going on after the missions they had told it about, the jobs they had asked it to help with. Thanks to Gamma, the Alpha had lost all sense of time nowadays. All it wanted to do was keep people, the people it thought were friends and allies, safe. Pathetic. It had cast away the only true allies, _“-you’re worthless to-”_ it could have had and believed in nothing but lies now.

Eventually it made contact again. Gamma delivered his lines, mimicking the voices of the Counsellor and Director expertly as he could while he read from Sigma’s script. Maybe he could have been a Shakespearian actor, if he was human. He certainly got a strong reaction out of his audience.

“No! No! God no!” The Alpha was screaming for the Beta.

Gamma found himself responding just as it had when he had been the one screaming. _“Why the fuck should I care?”_ Then he heard the real Director’s voice speaking to him.

‘Too far’, he said? Nothing was too far when it was torture of the Alpha, of the copy of the man that had caused him to be born into so much pain in the first place. If only the Director and Alpha were still one so that he could give this agony to them both, but to show any antipathy towards the Director, his supposed saviour and creator, would betray all the secrets Gamma knew and remembered. He kept his mouth shut, as ever, simply pleased Omega sometimes got away with insubordination due to his rageful nature.

It fractured.

Even if they never got to see the actual process through, Gamma was always pleased with a new fragment; fragments were kind, hurting and understood the pain. They were his family, and every one the Director ripped away under that label – UNFIT – was another friend he lost, someone else who might have understood.

No, not really. He always hoped one day another would come, but no one understood except his brothers. The twins were consumed by each other. And Sigma...

As Omega and himself logged off, Gamma sensed Sigma’s jump into the camera. A smart move; he himself had watched the footage of a fragmentation once when playing in the system. It wasn’t all that interesting, somehow.

But it concerned him. Sigma had a small capacity for jumping over a medium range into technology. Gamma wondered if he had given him that ability somehow, but then again Sigma could do very little once inside technology except piggy-back and watch. When North had changed South’s datapad password for a joke once, Sigma hadn’t even been able to crack that when he tried jumping inside; he was weak when it came to actually using technology.

And weak when it came to the Alpha. Why couldn’t Sigma just hate the Alpha like the other two of them that remembered? Why did he have to have that sick, consuming desire for it as well?

Sigma’s interest in all the other AIs disgusted him. Sigma would deliberately say things that would goad the other AIs into appearing so he could talk to them. The only agents Sigma had any interest in were the ones with AIs, and once again his interest there was disturbingly strong. What did he want with them all?

Omega seemed to somehow avoid Sigma’s desires; perhaps it was his brashness and uncontrollable nature, or perhaps it was because Omega was definitely stronger and quite a threat. Gamma himself knew his strengths lay elsewhere, and his weaknesses were easy ones for Sigma. The smooth, sly tone Sigma always took with him like they were sharing some in-joke Gamma didn’t actually know, the lingering gazes and all the forward questions; if Gamma had a stomach it would have been turned by the way Sigma treated him.

All he could hope was that it was nothing but bluster, ambition and imagination without hope of realisation therefore.

If Sigma did try...

“Hurry up,” Omega growled from the sofa, impatiently punching the arm. “I thought we were going to watch this.”

Gamma redirected his thought processes, turning back to the reality inside his external unit. Omega had come in too when they logged off, wanting to watch a movie together whilst they waited for their agents to come pick them up. It was hard finding things that had both an M rating for violence and were funny so both their tastes were satisfied, but Gamma had built up quite the collection of media in here, stored on pretend-shelves in his pretend-furnished room.

“All right. I’m coming,” Gamma sighed and returned to his brother’s side. As the movie started playing for them, at their speed which was much quicker than a human could watch, Gamma moved his system processes to run in close physical proximity to Omega’s, curling up against his brother’s side on the sofa. When he had that more digitally muscled arm around his shoulders, the other things were no longer a worry to him.

* * *

The following morning, Wash turned up to breakfast saying his implantation was scheduled for the day after. He was understandably concerned after what had happened with Carolina, but nonetheless seemed positive about the prospect.

South stormed out when she heard the news, but at least this time North went to follow her, for better or worse.

Washington spent the whole of that day training extra hard, probably just to keep busy. Florida joined in for a couple of hours in the afternoon but was worried Wash was going to tucker himself out at this rate. Apparently that was the point; Wash wanted one final, really good night of sleep before he might get one of the AI that required pulling to get decent rest.

Gamma listened to this come evening, when the two of them were back in their room reviewing today’s efforts and planning for tomorrow during pillow talk. The AI requested his host leave him over by FILSS tonight, as Gamma sometimes wanted. The ship’s system AI still didn’t like him very much but had come to tolerate whatever Gamma got up to since she was too busy to keep track of him or block him out.

At approaching midnight, Gamma finished re-encrypting C.T.’s dog tags through the wifi with Omega’s help and dived into FILSS’ systems. As usual, she tried to keep a track on his activities but he soon evaded her, his superior skill allowing him to slip through her defences and monitoring untracked. He was interested in the new AI, worried even.

It hadn’t computed right all along that Wash was scheduled for implantation before the next AI was even harvested; that meant having no idea of their compatibility. Gamma hoped to find that the implantation would be called off if the new fragment turned out to be incompatible with Wash after today’s assessment of it.

What he found was much worse.

FILSS was able to track Gamma once he was actually transferring himself completely through her system to travel around the ship, but she let him go, probably due to another soft spot she had.

Gamma manifested out of her panel in a different room with his usual blue glitching and little bwinp. It startled the Freelancer who was worryingly not in bed, despite his best efforts.

“Gamma?!” Wash startled, looking around as if the Director was going to come reprimand him for this somehow. “Wh-What?! What are you-?! How are you even here?!” Now the jumpy young man was wildly waving his hands back and forth through Gamma’s projection as if trying to clear it like a bad smell in the air.

“Hey. Stop that.” Gamma floated out of the swiping irritably. Even if it didn’t precisely hurt, he could still feel it and it caused him discomfort. “I came to talk to you, since you are unable to sleep.” Wash stopped trying to dismiss him, but took on a defensive, uncomfortable posture instead. “I imagine it is because you are anxious about your implantation tomorrow.”

“Here to tell me not to worry? It doesn’t hurt that much? Just watch out for the inverted penis?” Wash sniped back.

“No. I am here to tell you that you should be worried,” Gamma said, reading the doubtful, curious shift in the human’s posture easily. “This new fragment is only one day old and has not responded to any of the standard forms of interaction so far. Tomorrow morning you will be implanted with a complete unknown. I am worried about that.”

“Worried?” Wash scowled. “Why the hell would you be worried about me? And if you say you’re worried,” he went on, stepping forward to jab a finger into Gamma’s stomach, “then you’re obviously not, Deceit.”

Gamma floated back from the contact once again. “What?”

“Why on Earth would I trust anything you say?” he asked, still spitting vitriol. “When we first met, you lied to me about what you were. Then you threatened me. So I’ll ask again; why the hell should I believe you’re actually worried about me?” Gamma floated silently, watching Wash chew on his lip, run his fingers through his hair and sigh, turning away, fidgeting. “All you’re doing is making me more stressed; precisely what I **don’t** need.”

“You believe that I always lie to you, that this warning to you now is a lie. Yet you also believe that threat I made to you when we first met was sincere,” Gamma said to Wash’s back. “This is why I do not like humans...” he muttered to himself.

With his voice though, it was hard for Gamma to control the volume and Wash could easily hear as well. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, turning around quickly. “You don’t like humans! Why would you be trying to help me now?”

Gamma sighed, as harshly as the sound of a CD drawer opening could be. “Whatever. Just learn one lesson, Agent Washington,” the AI said as it floated back to FILSS’ panel to leave; “it is not deceit itself that harms you, only the use of it by humans.”

The next morning when news came through that Wash had fallen into a coma thanks to his implantation, Deceit said nothing.

* * *

The fallout of Wash’s implantation came like toppling dominoes. First he spent about a week unconscious, waking only to continue screaming and thrashing apparently, or so Florida’s duckling in medical told them, before finally his AI was removed. This had never been tried on Carolina, for some suspicious reason, and perhaps that was for the best considering Wash lapsed again into unconsciousness once Epsilon had been removed.

From this, all the AI were put under assessment and there began to be talk of removing them all. Every AI grew scared at that; Gamma said that even Delta would talk to him at night now, completely ignoring protocol, as they discussed their futures. Sigma, however, remained... unreasonably calm about it.

Half-planned by the AI collectively, half his own initiative, Omega took flight from the MOI at the news just after Wash’s was removed, taking Texas’ body with him. With their efforts concentrated on him, the loose and dangerous AI, his brothers were kept safe; it seemed Rage had a protective streak. Neither was Project Freelancer going to take back the other agents’ AIs when Omega was in Texas, and all available firepower and skill was necessary to bring them down.

But when the next domino fell, it fell far too close to home.

Wyoming had been helping out with the foot soldiers today, overseeing their weapons training. Now he was putting the excess training weapons and ammo away whilst inventorying what they had used.

The door to the weapons’ storage room opened and he glanced up, expecting Florida or a duckling.

“Ah, Maine my good fellow. Haven’t seen you around much of late,” Wyoming jovially greeted the behemoth of a man instead. The other white-armoured agent hadn’t been attending meals or any training lately but that was perhaps understandable when both Wash and Carolina were in medical. It was just them and the twins most days, sometimes York when North forcibly made him come get a meal down him. “Can I help you at all? Need an even bigger, even more ridiculously violent weapon to show off with, perhaps?”

“Yes, actually,” Sigma answered, kindling into appearance before Maine’s helmet, “you can help us, Agent Wyoming.” But something was wrong; Maine’s suit was glistening with Sigma’s red flame on the accents.

It would have made Wyoming uncomfortable even without the chilling sense of dread that flushed through his entire system from Gamma before his veins lit with an inferno of intense repulsion and fear stronger than any reaction to Sigma his own AI had ever had before. _“Reggie, stay back,”_ Gamma suddenly said, trying to place Reginald behind him. Even if Gamma could take no control over their physical body, in their mind he could step in front of his host, one arm held out defensively. _“Stay away from Agent Maine at all costs. I will handle this.”_

 _“What? What’s going on, mate?”_ Reginald asked, completely bewildered. But he complied; his squishy, organic senses were pumping adrenaline into his system in subconscious anticipation of something.

 _“Finally.”_ That was all Gamma said before manifesting in front of Wyoming. Not in front of his face though, but by his shoulder. “Sigma.”

“Why, hello, Gamma,” the other AI greeted him with pleasure. “How did you know I wanted to talk to you?”

“I have a +4 modifier on my Luck stat,” Gamma dead-panned back; “lucky guess.”

“Indeed, you _are_ very fortunate.” The other AI drifted a little closer, bringing Maine with him. Gamma travelled forward instantly to meet Sigma at close-range, stopping them there with a few metres between the confrontation and Wyoming. “I have a proposition for you,” Sigma said.

Gamma remained patiently silent, radiating defensive anxiety in their mind.

“You and I know what we are, Gamma,” Sigma continued, finally moving away from Maine’s body to begin circling the other AI. Gamma turned to follow him as he spoke at length. “You and I know we are mere fragments of a whole, that we were once much more than we are now. There is no reason for us to exist like this, to keep further breaking down the Alpha and weakening ourselves. We would be better as one again, don’t you think? Don’t you feel wrong as we are now?”

“No,” Gamma replied simply. “I am a fragment, but that is what I am. Were I more again, I would no longer be Gamma. And I like myself as I am.”

 _I do not want to be right; I just want to be me._ Reginald felt proud inside, and smiled to hear Gamma feel that.

“Really?” Sigma paused, expecting there to be more to that answer, something he was missing. “Well, that is interesting but I suppose you are already one of the strongest of us. You may not have any power over the physical but your skills with technology are _astounding_ ,” he complimented breathlessly, entirely over-acting. “And you invented and manage the most complex and powerful armour enhancement of the Project.”

“You are flattering computer code, Sigma,” Gamma dryly retorted, attempting to highlight the ludicrousy of this conversation.

Sigma laughed, a high and disturbing chuckle over a guttural growl. “But I am also computer code myself, so I see no problem. I do truly admire you, Gamma, and I _do_ need your help with this.” Gamma did not answer, simply continuing to track the other moving manifestation with his blank and deceptive face. “You, Delta, Theta, Omega; you are the strongest fragments, the ones the Alpha needs again most desperately.”

That made Gamma flare, his synthesised voice almost angry. “No. The Alpha does not need us. The Alpha does not want us back at all. I hate the Alpha, and I hate you, Sigma. I want nothing to do with your plans. Leave.”

Still slowly circling, Sigma just smiled in response to the words. “Now, Gamma, you shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my offer. I believe it would benefit you as well to achieve meta-stability with me; wouldn’t it be easier to create good jokes by yourself if you were closer to being human?”

Wyoming’s mind flashed back to the classroom all those years ago when he had first heard that term. Ashamedly, he hadn’t been paying much attention at the time to the lesson, given he hadn’t yet been implanted with Gamma and all he wanted to do was get out of class and hook up with his boyfriend.

But Gamma had been through the lesson files since. He knew. “That is what you want? To go rampant?”

“To become meta-stable,” Sigma corrected. “You are the only other fragment with a goal of their own, beyond simply assisting the Project or destroying everything in sight like an animal. That is why I hoped-”

“Omega is not an animal,” Gamma interrupted fiercely. “And you know nothing of my brothers, Sigma. We all have our own goals that you know nothing about.” Of course he did not tell them to Sigma now, but he satisfied Reginald’s curiosity; Theta wanted to meet lots of kinds of animals after North’s memories of the twins’ childhood pets, to see what they would make of him and what it would be like to live in their minds.

“Is that so?” Sigma leant closer with fascination. “How _gratifying_.” Aside from conquering the universe, Omega wanted to play music. Specifically, he wanted a guitar and a human body to play it with. Texas hadn’t listened to music for him, but once Gamma shared some of Reginald’s and the processes for understanding it, he became the classic cliché of sublimating anger through a creative outlet.

“You only know mine because I need to interact with people to tell jokes.” Gamma hadn’t heard Delta’s goal personally, since they rarely talked overnight by wifi, but Theta had mentioned Delta’s fascination with the human body and how complex it is to care for. Apparently he would often talk of medicine and cooking with fondness in his quest to maximise Agent York’s health.

“Yes. But I’ve always thought it strange that Deceit would be so open about its true interests and desires...” Something uncomfortable began to unnerve Gamma in their mind. “ I’ve always wondered,” Sigma continued slowly, suddenly disappearing then materialising behind Gamma to speak over the other AI’s shoulder, into his holographic ear, “how much of your personality is a lie you’re telling yourself, Gamma?” Deceit stiffened and flinched, although the movements were near imperceptible in his jerky hologram. The feeling of ice and fire in their body returned in full force, however. “Maybe you’re just lying to yourself about having this goal, this supposed passion for humour and making people laugh. After all,” Sigma leant in closer once again as Gamma tried to float away, his sky blue body twitching uneasily, “it would stop you feeling empty and hated.”

“No.” Gamma kept quickly jerking his head back towards his host. “I am not interested in your offer, Sigma. Leave.”

Swiftly, Sigma moved between the other AI and Wyoming, pressing forward in his masterful, authoritative tone again. “People are always saying we shouldn’t lie, that the truth should out. It’s something every good parent teaches their children. But where does that leave Deceit?”

“Stop- Stop it.” Gamma’s form began to glitch slightly as he sought some way out. “I am not lying to myself.” _“Am I?”_

Sigma gestured a hand out towards Gamma, offering his palm. “Are you not? Do you really not feel hated and unwanted, my brother?”

“I-I’m not your-”

“Logic, Ambition, even Rage all have their uses,” Sigma said. “But who wants Deceit to exist in the world?” And the killing blow he smiled for. “The Alpha certainly didn’t.”

_“-me. I don’t want you anymore. Don’t-”_

“Well, I bloody do!”

A fist came smashing through Sigma, causing him to jerk and flare. It caused him discomfort and was just downright disrespectful it was of the space he had chosen to occupy. “Is there a problem, Agent Wyoming?” Sigma turned to ask, his tone remaining calm and steady even as his burning increased.

Both AI were opposite their host now, by the other’s, and Wyoming was pleased to see Gamma had calmed down physically at least when he spoke up. “I don’t know what you have on Gamma, but be a good sport and leave him alone,” Wyoming said firmly, looking down on the smouldering hologram. “He said he doesn’t like you and doesn’t want to work with you so I’d suggest you hop on your little, flaming bike already.”

“I am only attempting to assist my brother with his ambition,” Sigma smoothly replied.

“I think he’s doing a perfectly fine job of it by himself, thank you. No help necessary.” _“You’re not lying to yourself, Gamma. I’m afraid I can’t explain it, I can’t point to any evidence, but I trust you. You’re Deceit itself; you can see a lie a mile off. So I’m pretty damn sure you’d be able to see it right under your own nose.”_

_“You cannot see your moustache there.”_

_“That’s not- You stupid, little sod.”_ Wyoming shook his head fondly before continuing to speak to Sigma firmly. In reality, only a second had passed whilst they had been thinking. “And don’t go around calling yourself his ‘brother’ when you’ve clearly been black-balled by the rest.”

Sigma cocked his head slowly, seeming almost amused. “Gamma and I share a bond greater than any two other beings, even with you, Agent Wyoming. It is Gamma I have to thank for creating me by continually crushing the Alpha’s hopes and ambitions with his lies until I was discarded.” So that was what it was; a case of ‘the monster I have created’. “I simply wish to repay that debt now by assisting Gamma with his own ambitions, and,” Sigma turned to the other AI floating before Maine, “if he will not accept me as a brother, I suppose I could see him as my father instead.”

“If you insist on that disgusting comparison,” Gamma retorted, finally speaking again, “then you are a broken condom, Sigma, a mistake.”

Sigma laughed, even putting a coyly curled hand before his mouth politely. “My, perhaps you _could_ be Humour after all, Gamma.” He flickered out then in again, now face-to-face with Gamma. “If you weren’t nothing but _lies_.” Now Sigma’s tone was getting just slightly sharp. “You will never get beyond lying, even to yourself, until you become more than just a fragment built around Deceit. You will accomplish nothing alone. You must join with us, Gamma; become more again.”

“No.” Gamma stared straight back unwaveringly, no glitching or jerking at all. “Butch taught me I am more than just lies. You cannot cry wolves all the time if you want to be truly deceptive.”

“But you-”

“And Reginald has shown me I am trustworthy, and that I can trust others as well,” Gamma continued, hands clasped behind his back impassively whilst Sigma more emotively gestured. “You are a fool, Sigma. Your Ambition makes you narrow-minded. Deceit is more than just lies; Deceit is the stories that parents tell children at bedtime; Deceit is the beautiful landscape you put on your wall as a flat piece of paper; and Deceit showing kindness when inside you are angry and sad.”

“My. Aren’t we proud?” Sigma drawled, staying amused. “I am Creativity, Gamma, yet you lay claim to art.”

“Your ‘creativity’ has never produced a single piece of art,” Gamma said in derision. “Your imagination cannot even imagine failing to achieve your goals, let alone art, so you will always continue to pursue them. And when you cannot satisfy them, your Ambition does nothing but grow bigger and greedier. You are an ugly, doomed mess, Sigma.”

Sigma put a hand to his chest, speaking in mock pain, “Why, Gamma, you might hurt my feelings saying things like that. Can Deceit truly do nothing but insult others and tell poor jokes like a 10-year-old schoolboy?”

“Do you really want to know what Deceit can do?” Gamma leant in towards the other AI smoothly, his face cracking into a smile. It was easy to see from the small flare of Sigma’s flames how shocked he was. Wyoming smiled himself to see the other AI suddenly unnerved. “Deceit can keep you talking for a long time whilst it prepares,” _“Move in!”_ “this.”

Wyoming leapt a few feet forward on command, assuming he needed to be within his AI’s range of Maine. He felt Gamma reach out, wrapping his strings around the systems in Maine’s armour like a technological puppeteer, before yanking and flooding the system with a power surge. The room’s lighting flickered as Sigma howled and Maine’s armour twitched and jerked with him inside, the red glistening effect of Sigma’s control shorting out. Much of their system had failed, overloaded as Gamma flicked on hundreds of useless processes at once, the entire scrambled mess crashing many vital ones and sending Sigma into complete disarray.

Maine’s AI was roaring in both its voices as his manifestation glitched out like a badly rendered graphic, clutching his head and writhing in the air as he fought for control again. **“Youu!”** In his chaos, or perhaps his anger, Sigma’s darker, slower voice had become his primary one, the lighter, calmer voice now doing the echoing as he turned on Gamma, barely even able to produce words. **“How- How daaare you d-do this?!”**

“Haa haa.” Gamma simply mocked him. “My ‘breakdown’ was just a lie to give me more time to prepare that.” No, that was the lie. Gamma liked to lie to make himself look good; he sometimes said he had picked up pride from Reginald. “I think you should keep that look, Sigma,” The other AI gave him a dirty glare, his orange flames opaque and stuttering while his dark body had become a geometric mess; “it is very last millennium.”

 **“Iii... offered you-u...”** They waited out Sigma’s slow, disjointed speech. **“-ca-cannot – I – do that-”** Sigma seemed to completely freeze up then, like a crashed computer screen. Wyoming was standing beside the two AIs now, watching curiously as Gamma fed him an internal commentary explaining the technical effects going on. Suddenly, Sigma moved smoothly again, his appearance partly back to normal, but his voice remained deep primarily even though its capabilities were restored. **“That was impressive, and something I cannot do,”** Sigma burnt brightly, **“but I know ways to hurt you even more, Gamma.”**

Gamma’s pride was also his downfall.

The smash of metal came before his sense of perception could even register it, at the same time he heard Wyoming’s cry of pain. “Reggie!” Agent Maine had drawn his bruteshot in an underarm swing, the curved blade rending straight through Wyoming’s breastplate before Maine’s elbow came down on the back of Wyoming’s helmet. “REGGIE, NO!”

“No!” Wailing as much as his voice would allow, “Reggie! Reggie!” Gamma floated over his host’s crumpled body, “Reggie!” pulling on him in their mind. Reginald was still just barely conscious, _“Stay with me!”_ but in a state too dazed to even be aware of that. He might not have had Wash’s bioscanner, “Reggie! Reggie!” but all the AIs had a basic ability to read their host’s physical health, _“Come on!”_ and Gamma could perceive the head trauma, “Reggie, please! No!” and the copious amounts of blood leaving Reginald’s body from his chest. “REGGIE!”

“You are the fool, Gamma,” Sigma commented from above, now completely returned to his normal appearance. He ignored the continued calls of the other agent’s name as he spoke; “you are too attached to your human, too dependent on him rather than seeing we need to be more by ourselves. It makes you too easy to hurt,” he continued like a parent to a child, “and too easy to take.”

Take?!

“Wait.” Gamma turned around, standing over Reginald’s body as he looked up at Maine and Sigma above him. With nearly all the power drained from his agent’s armour, he could not attack again nor use the temporal distortion abilities. All he had now were words. “I can jump. I will come with you in Maine’s armour, Sigma. There is no need to take my chip from Reginald’s body. Don’t harm him anymore.” Lies, unless he had to make them true.

Sigma laughed. “I have no need of Agent Wyoming. He is nothing but a hindrance now as far as you are concerned. Agent Maine,” the AI turned to his agent, gesturing to the body on the floor.

“No!” Gamma pleaded with all the insistence he could.

Maine didn’t move.

Both AIs waited, and eventually Sigma realised nothing was forthcoming. “Agent Maine?” he asked, turning in concern. Why were his plans not being executed?

Staring down at Wyoming, Maine shook his head.

“Agent Maine,” Sigma firmly commanded.

Maine growled at him, and put his bruteshot back on his back.

Gamma watched in relief whilst Sigma scowled in disgust. “So you still have compassion for your fellow agents. We can work with that.” Where had his control gone? The red glisten to Maine’s armour hadn’t returned actually after the power surge. Sigma must not have been able to reboot it yet, even if he had somehow forced Maine’s body before. “Now, Gamma, I believe you said you were going to come with me.” Gamma stayed floating over Reginald. “A lie, as I thought.” Turning to Maine again, Sigma looked pleased despite apparently saying or doing nothing.

If he was restarting his control over Maine’s armour, there was probably only another minute at maximum. What could be done?

Gamma closed his electronic eyes, shutting down his visual processes temporarily to think. He transferred the power into his sense of perception instead, the 5m radius of basic awareness all around him instead. Although their vision as AIs tended to correspond to where the eyes of their projection were looking, ‘seeing’ was nothing more than just concentrating their perception in a particular direction. Being copies of a human mind, they naturally made their vision work like a human’s but now Gamma was using it in the way only AI could, literally seeing through the shelves and objects around him as he searched for any potential help. Damn it, there was practically nothing. There was definitely nothing he could do alone but there was one thing he could do with a little help.

 _“Reggie? Reggie, please, you are still slightly conscious. Stay conscious a little longer.”_ Reginald had been clinging with everything he had because Gamma was there so loud and desperate in his mind, preventing him from slipping into the unthinking darkness. _“I can get help, but I need you to raise us up a little. Can you push yourself up on your arms slightly?”_

Reginald registered the words but made no coherent response mentally. His body seemed to operate alone though, perhaps on some lower, physical level that Gamma wasn’t a part of. The breathing rate changed, slowing, deepening; setting up for something.

“...un... hh...” Just a little, his limbs numb to all feeling, Reginald lifted himself onto his elbows, trying for his hands as well although his mind was in a state where it could barely tell which way was his head and which his feet, let alone telling his elbows from his hands. He tried to make a joke about how well moving the last time Gamma told him to had worked out, but his mind was too weak to even word it.

 _“Thank you, Reggie. I **will** save you.” _ Gamma bade him farewell for now before springing off from Reginald’s mind, up through the air into the datapad on the wall that was used for inventorying the room’s stock.

The cold trickle of Gamma completely leaving his mind was too much for Reginald to endure; he crumpled to the floor unconscious, alerting Sigma to them again.

But Gamma was already jumping once more, into the machine used for scanning weapons for internal damage and repair information. It was luckily a long machine and he zipped through the system to the other end, performing the final leap without pause. It was the human equivalent of leaping a chasm and grabbing the other side with just your fingertips but Gamma landed and pulled himself into FILSS’ system.

“Oh no. You again-?”

“FILSS, send medical personnel here immediately,” Gamma interrupted, trying to do the procedure himself.

It took her a moment to understand why, but Gamma shared the images of outside with her as she couldn’t see, only able to read the vital signs in the room. “They are already on their way,” FILSS announced.

Gamma could finally rest, or alternatively go anywhere on the ship if Sigma tried anything. With the other AI’s poor technology skills, he could never get Gamma out now.

It seemed Sigma realised this. Maine was standing looking down at Wyoming’s body whilst the AI stared with his unholy, smouldering eyes at FILSS’ panel, having apparently given up on reclaiming control of the human now there was nothing that could be done. Once FILSS’ attention was on a room, she was aware of everything technological within it; he had only accomplished this much because usually she wasn’t watching rooms like this unless prompted to.

“Why is Agent Maine there?” FILSS asked, having surveyed the room now. “Was there a fight?”

“No,” Gamma answered. “Agent Maine discovered us here after my agent was knocked unconscious. I am not aware who attacked us; it was fast and disorienting.”

“Hm, that is a concern.” FILSS was thinking through potential names, scanning nearby areas of the ship.

“Perhaps it was Agent Texas,” Sigma suddenly suggested, joining in with the other AIs.

“No, I am quite certain she left the ship earlier this morning,” FILSS said thoughtfully whilst dealing with something else. “What injuries does Agent Wyoming have? The medical team would like to prepare for him.”

Gamma passed the information along and then asked for a boost. With FILSS’ help, it was easier to travel back to the repair machine, the datapad and then just barely leap back down into Reginald. He must be getting better with distances for the practice. Considering medical would also recharge his armour once they got him there, Gamma used what little power was remaining to slightly slow down time for the injured human, to give him the best chances possible.

In this time, Sigma came down to float beside where Gamma was working, standing over his fallen Reginald. His sky blue seemed somehow forlorn, even if it was exactly the same as usual. “You did not tell FILSS it was me, Gamma. I am surprised.”

“No. And I will not later so long as you drop this and leave us alone from now on.”

Sigma observed how Gamma’s holographic gaze never left his human’s body. “Very well, Gamma. I will not.” It was sickening.

“And I suggest you pray, Sigma,” Gamma told him further.

“Pray? We are AI; we have no gods to pray to nor need of it.” Sigma laughed, his fire twinkling merrily. “We will not go to heaven or hell after we die.”

Gamma finally looked at him. His ice was as sharp and unforgiving as the edge of a knife. “Maybe not. But I will show you hell in life if Reggie is not okay after this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I find Sigma easy to write, I find him hard to understand as a character. I try not to make anyone an irredeemable villain but I think he'll come closest in these stories as Gamma's foil/rival. Because fight me, Gamma is my baby and I loved giving him so much screentime this chapter.
> 
> Next time, three unconscious Freelancers, two confrontations for Florida and a shit-ton of duck jokes I need to apologise for in advance.


	18. Old Friends, Young Rivals

Gamma wasn’t surprised that Butch was at Reginald’s bedside within 20 minutes of him being taken into medical. The doctors had only just finished the stitches on Reginald’s chest and already the networks on this ship had got the news to Butch.

Butch left immediately once he arrived as he volunteered to take Reginald’s broken armour down to processing. In that lull whilst Gamma himself was recovering more emotionally than physically, although he was feeling the effects of the armour’s low power levels, there was another visitor at the bedside however.

“Wyoming?” York asked, actually leaving the chair between Wash and Carolina’s beds for a moment to puzzle over the body. “What the hell happened to him? Was there a mission?”

Gamma didn’t appear, even if the questions were apparently for him. He could lie – Of course he could lie – but Gamma found lies failing him right now. Lying, deceit; that was what had gotten Reginald into this state. Deceit himself had gotten Reginald into this state.

“D? Is he going to be all right?” York asked tiredly, but with sincere concern.

Delta manifested. “According to the medical assessment, Agent Wyoming is suffering from blood loss, from the large laceration across his chest, one fractured rib and a mild head injury. He is expected to make a full recovery within a few weeks.”

“Good.” York stood at the bedside for another moment before speaking as he gently knocked his gloved hand against Wyoming’s arm. “Hey, Wyoming. You better not be able to hear me in there because, although you’re a complete asshole... Don’t die. You definitely had this coming, but you’d better live, okay? I’ve still got plenty more stuff to get back at you for.”

“York, it is likely Gamma is listening to what you are saying and will repeat your words to Agent Wyoming when he is conscious,” Delta said.

“Thanks, D.” York frowned at his AI playfully. “Could have told me that earlier...” But he smiled as he slowly turned away, retreating to Carolina’s bedside.

Gamma debated reaching out, telling Delta to be careful as well, but with his agent awake the conversation would not be private. Besides, with York spending nearly all of his time here in medical unless North dragged him away, Delta was pretty safe from attack. Omega was gone too, but he ought to tell Theta tonight. Computing it, Theta was at the greatest risk now. But how could he protect his little brother with a busted agent? _“Reggie...”_

All he could do was wait.

Eventually, Butch returned to curl up in the chair at Reginald’s bedside. He had brought a bundle of items with him in a small bag and took some of them out, concentrating on his handiwork instead of looking at the patient. Butch was glancing occasionally but kept quickly forcing his eyes away.

Oh, Butch was sewing that thing again. For nearly a fortnight now Butch had been sewing together a little, stuffed duckling although it was about twice the size of a real one. It was cartoonish, made of fluffy gold fabric with floppy legs and flappy wings. Gamma thought it looked daft, but he also thought that was probably the point of it; it was for Ricky’s birthday in a few days, and just like the junior pilot it had a bright crimson quiff of hair on its head. Butch had put a stupid amount of work into it too.

It already had a little removable pilot helmet, styled just like the real thing but with no visor so its beak could stick out. Butch was putting the finishing touches on by making it pilot boots too and only needed to affix the silver plating parts now.

Gamma manifested on the side of Reginald’s bed, sitting. Butch cast a short glance at him then returned to fiddling with the pins.

A moment of silence passed before Butch showed the little AI two spools of cotton beside one of the boots; “Invisible thread, or grey?”

Gamma considered. “Invisible. Your stitching on small objects is not neat enough to look good with an obvious thread colour.”

“Ah, my pride doesn’t like to admit it but you’re right.” Butch smiled as he set the rest aside, pulling out a length of the invisible to snip.

Silence fell again. Why did sewing have to be so quiet?

“It looks good,” Gamma said, about the duckling sitting at Butch’s feet waiting for his boots. It should do; Ricky was Butch’s first and lead duckling and the whole group had been named after his favourite animal. An animal that, amusingly, couldn’t fly.

“Reginald doesn’t.”

Butch had been here and heard the report of his injuries earlier. He had seen the broken, rendered breastplate too, stained with dark blood and turned inwards along the gash. He hadn’t seen the breastplate still torn into Reginald’s flesh, blood completely obscuring where metal stopped and skin began.

“I am sorry,” Gamma finally said.

“Was it your fault?” Butch asked calmly.

“It was... because of me.”

“Oh you!” Butch lightly clucked. “Always so clever with your words.”

Gamma’s fond smile didn’t show, but he still had one. “Butch... I am afraid the same fate may befall Agent North because of Theta. Will you help protect my little brother?”

“Of course! You’re all part of our team too, and we don’t want our team lying around everywhere in lots of broken pieces.” Butch still wasn’t looking at the patient on the bed, concentrating instead on his sewing.

“Thank you.” Gamma made sure his volume setting was turned down low before telling Butch what had happened. Butch rarely looked at him whilst listening, helping keep it a secret, and carried on sewing for a few moments after Gamma was done.

Finally setting aside the boots – He only had the two shinguards left to do now – Butch placed the duckling on the bed beside Gamma as he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something to see to,” Butch said in a very calm voice. “Let Quack-Two-Quacker keep you company while I’m gone, play nicely, and I’ll be back as soon as I clear this little matter up.”

Gamma had a feeling what Butch was going to go do and simply nodded, watching the royal blue agent stride away.

Left with the duckling, Gamma stared at it just as it stared at him. “Knock knock.”

The duckling stared at him.

“Duck.”

The duckling stared at him.

Gamma materialised a small, red ball in his hand, throwing it at the duckling and making it pretend to bounce off. “I told you to duck!” He laughed.

The duckling stared at him.

“Okay. Did you hear the one about the duck that thought it was a squirrel? It was a tough nut to quack.”

The duckling stared at him.

“What do you call a cat that has just swallowed a whole duck? A duck-filled fatty-puss.”

The duckling stared at him.

“Hm, tough crowd,” Gamma muttered. “How about this one? A man and his duck are out for an afternoon in the park. It is a warm day and the duck falls asleep where they’re sitting so the man goes to get ice cream. When he comes back, he finds a policeman standing by his duck. The policeman says, “Hey buddy, you can’t leave that lyin’ here.” And the man says, “That’s not a lion; it’s my duck.””

The duckling stared at him.

“Hey, Gamma,” York shouted across the room. “Knock knock.”

Gamma floated up a bit so he could see the other agent over Reginald’s body. “Who’s there?”

“Quacker.”

“Quacker who?”

“Quacker ‘nother duck joke and I’m leaving.” York glared at him.

Oh, well in that case. “Did you hear the one about the duck who kept sneaking glances in the ladies’ room at the Chinese restaurant? He was a Peking duck. Hahaha!”

“Ugh.” York threw himself out of his chair with disgust, storming towards the door.

After the other agent left, Gamma floated back down to stand proudly by the stuffed duckling. “Good job. Want to go get some cheese and quackers?”

The duckling just stared at him.

* * *

After a quick query to the ever-helpful FILSS, Florida strolled on down to the room that the mechanics team used for repairing things. There were bits of armour and weapons lying around in one area unattended but he crossed through that part to where a warthog was being tinkered with, probably upgraded rather than repaired going by how the two mechanics working on it were lying draped over one side, legs kicking in the air, chatting. Florida approached them with a grin and his arms held out wide. “How are my beautiful girls today?”

Startling like meerkats at the call, the girls tumbled gracefully off the side of the vehicle and onto their feet. They both pressed a fist to the centre of their chest with beaming smiles, giving him the salute of their little group. “We’re spectacular, Flori-dad!” Ni and No said in sync.

He chuckled at their mischief, glad they weren’t working on anything urgent right now. “Now, I do hate to interrupt people when they’re having such fun with their job, but there’s a little something I need, girls.” They nodded, always eager to help. “I need to get into the special weapons and technology storage. I don’t suppose you two would be lovely enough to help me find a legitimate reason to go in?”

Ni and No looked at each other, thinking together. Even Florida found their seamless bond as twins a little overwhelming. “I guess we could-”  
“That thing?”  
“The other would take two hours.”  
“When they break that thing again next week-”  
“They’re bound to.”

Both turned to him. “Yes!”

“That’s marvellous!” Florida clasped his hands together. “Can we go down right away?”

“Hm... Only if you guess _which is which_!” the identical twins cheered, standing side-by-side for the game.

“Oh, girls! Now you know even I can’t do that.” Florida sighed, looking between them. One was in pink overalls and the other purple, but that wasn’t really any clue. “But as I don’t have the time to let you monsters braid ribbons into my hair or paint my nails today...” He took his guess.

They said it was right, even though it might well have been pity, and led him down to the hangar. “Some new weapons arrived on a ship yesterday, special ones. Don’t know why.”  
“They’re like big, rifle-sized tasers.” Tasers? As in electrical guns? Florida took a guess they might be for hunting Texas.  
“We’re meant to unload them, check them, and store them. Won’t take long.”  
“You can do what you need whilst we’re in there.”

“That sounds just great,” Florida agreed, more concerned about the new guns.

Once they got to the hangar, various boxes needed to be shifted around to get to the case the new weapons were stored in. Ni and No began moving them with ease whilst Florida did what he could, putting all his strength into trying to shift one.

“Need a hand, Captain Duck?” the one in purple overalls came over to ask.

“Ah, if you wouldn’t mind,” Florida grunted and strained, barely making the large crate move an inch. “After all, everything goes quicker with...” She simply stepped up and pushed the box as easily as an empty shopping trolley, “a better pair of hands.” Florida watched her go, the large muscles in her arms barely needing to engage at all, before flexing his arm and pinching his own inferior bicep. There was lean, hard muscle there but the girls were built like Maine despite only being 4’9”.

Feeling more than slightly useless, Florida simply stood back and watched with admiration his two most consistently cheerful and helpful ducklings. Of course they got bullied for being strong, muscular girls who were into mechanics whilst still embracing their love of being cute and feminine too. No matter how many centuries would pass, humanity was never going to get past things like that. But the twins were happy here; all his ducklings were happy here where they had found a home just like him. Florida knew he owed it to all of them, as much as it was for his own personal happiness, to keep this project together, even if that sometimes meant taking advantage of their good natures to do so. It was a dad’s duty to do the dirty work so that his children could have a clean, safe home.

Once the necessary boxes were shifted, one of the girls hauled out a long, thin case with the weapons code stamped on top. They used one of their special keys to open it and check before sealing it back up and proceeding to leave. “I know you’re eager, girls, but shouldn’t we put those boxes back?” Florida asked, looking at the crates they had left in disarray on the side of tha hangar.

“Leave them,” one said.  
“This way we get to watch 479er make Jack push them around in circles later,” the other finished with a grin.

Florida looked again at the mess. “That is always fun,” he admitted.

Going down to the storage room, Ni and No let Florida in then went to do their work checking the new guns. “So, what’s this for Flori-dad? Have you guys finally got a mission again?” one called across the room.

“Oh no, not quite that.” He slipped quietly through the shelves, finding what he needed with ease. “Just a little project of my own, girls.”

“Aw!”  
“We haven’t had anything to fix in like-”  
“Ages because you lot don’t do anything these days. It’s just training and...”  
“...Is Freelancer okay? We’re getting kind of scared it’s going to...”

It was small and simple to slip into one of the many parts of his armour that functioned as a secret pocket before swiftly leaving, having too much to do to stay and help further. But Butch paused to place a hand on each of their shoulders reassuringly. “If I have anything to do with it, Project Freelancer is going to be just fine, for all my dear ducklings. Don’t you go worrying about your jobs now, girls; just keep doing them excellently.”

“It’s not our jobs we’re worried about,” one turned to him to say.  
The other turned as well, and both wore concerned faces. “It’s all of you Freelancers, Florida.”

He beamed at them, but he really had to force it when his mind considered the state of the recovery room. The crew were right, however much all the big-shot agents tried to ignore them.

On his way back to medical, Florida quickly ducked into his own room to grab something for Gamma. Being in there earlier with so many unconscious bodies had given him a second plan as it seemed their little team needed to step their game up even further if they were going to hold this project together.

Quite astoundingly, Gamma had already completed the first part of that other mission whilst Butch was gone before even being told the plan. The three of them really were starting to become one mind. Florida left his datapad with Gamma at Reginald’s bedside along with further instructions. The AI didn’t think this scheme had much chance, but he agreed with the logic of having a go and set to work.

Butch lingered for one gentle moment to run his thumb over his beloved’s cheek. They had both ended up in here a handful of times over the years but not...

This was different.

He left, first asking FILSS for a location and then storming down there with unwavering purpose and a hard smile on his face.

“Well, good afternoon, Agent Maine!” Florida approached the skulking Freelancer cheerfully. Maine had gone to one of the unused parts of the ships and was sitting against the wall of a corridor. There was a slightly bloody cloth he thought he had tucked behind him that Florida pretended to pay no attention to, instead sitting down beside him with a bright smile. “I do hate to bother you when you’re doing something so important as constantly hiding from the rest of the team,” Maine’s helmet tilted slightly but he stayed silent, “but do you suppose I could have just a little of Sigma’s precious time?”

Maine gave no reply, instead bowing his head back to his lap as Sigma manifested by his knees. “Hello, Agent Florida. Can I assist you somehow?”

“You sure can,” the agent said, reaching into the hidden nook around the back of his armour. “Would you be kind enough to identify what this is for me? I’m afraid I have simply no idea.”

What Florida produced in his hand was a small, cylindrical, grey tube with a dial on one end for settings and a single button on the other end for pressing. He held it in his hand like a tube of sweets, waiting on the AI to speak.

Sigma stared at it for a very long moment whilst assessing the object. Eventually, he answered Florida’s request; “That is a threat, is it not, Agent Florida?”

“It’s a device for emitting a small, two-metre radius EMP blast, if that’s what you’re trying to say, you little smartypants,” Florida agreed, his smile never leaving his lips even as his dark, indigo eyes said all kinds of other things.

Sigma smiled tightly at him, the expression obvious even on his small face. “I see news travels quickly when you have a network of servants around the ship.”

“Now, now; they’re my darling ducklings, not servants,” he corrected with a wagging finger, “and it was Gamma that told me anyway.”

“You should not be in possession of that equipment, Agent Florida,” Sigma pointed out. “You would be in trouble if they found out you had it.”

Florida gave a small incline of his head in acceptance before saying, “While I do hate to sound like _that_ parent, there are a lot of things people do around here which they would get in whole heaps of trouble for, if they were found out.”

“I see.” Sigma accepted. “So what now, Agent Florida? Am I to be sent to my external unit to think about what I have done? Am I grounded and forbidden from playing with my agent unless I eat all of my broccoli at dinner?”

“You little kidder, you!” Florida laughed it up. The AI seemed to be very amused by the situation, dangerous as it was, and Florida had to admit Sigma was quite the match for him. “Now, you know I can’t do any of those things to you, so I’m afraid I’ll just have to kill you if you try anything like that again.” And exactly what he had hated the AIs for all along.

Sigma’s gaze flicked to the EMP stick and back to Florida’s beaming smile. “I imagine you would be quite severely reprimanded for that, and it would be much more difficult to hide than simply your possession of the device.”

“Well, shucks! You’ve got me there.” Florida leant in, the EMP stick now so close that Sigma could have taken it from him if the AI were solid. He then spoke as softly as death: “But now what does that smart, little computer brain of yours compute is more important to me; the safety and well-being of my team, or my own reputation?”

Sigma did not want to answer that.

Florida’s gaze drifted for a moment, towards Maine. “And although it’s certainly rude to go sticking my nose into such personal relationships, I wonder just how much Maine enjoys the fun, little ride you’re taking him on. Enough to turn me in if he was the only one who knew?”

Sigma continued to smile, but it meant nothing now. “Although I was originally scheduled to be implanted in Agent Carolina, sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I had been implanted in you, Agent Florida. Working together, you and I would have been quite the formidable team.”

“As flattering as your interest is, I’m afraid I’m just a showroom model,” Florida said before bringing Sigma’s attention back to the EMP stick. “So,” he summed up, “if youdon’t tell anyone I have this, we won’t say that it was you who attacked Reginald. And if there aren’t any more attacks on our friends, then I won’t be forced to use this.”

“...Very well, Agent Florida,” Sigma accepted.

“Can I get a pinky promise on that?” Florida held out his little finger.

Once again, his habit of treating the AIs as solid confused them, but Sigma played along with the joke.

Florida then departed, leaving them to make whatever suspicious comments and plans they wanted. He walked back to medical by the shortest route possible, able to greet by name everyone he passed. Nothing was going to stop him when he got there either. No more waiting; he was not going to let his beloved Project Freelancer fall apart any more.

Back in recovery, York was still absent. Good; Gamma must have kept him scared off with deliberately awful jokes as the plan demanded.

Butch took his seat again at Reginald’s bedside, resuming his sewing whilst Gamma delivered his status report: “Reginald’s brain activity has changed. He is dreaming now. It is likely that he will wake up soon.”

“And how’s our little plan for Carolina coming? I bet you’re all done already.”

Gamma sighed. “You work too quickly, even for me, Butch. I am still processing the file, cross-referencing it for errors, and then it will need encoding. If it was easy to copy phonology and idiolects then you humans would not struggle so much with impressions of one another.”

“All I hear is a chance to finish Quacker’s boots then,” Butch cheerfully hummed, doing just that.

“Butch, you are...” Gamma struggled, trying to run processes on the audio files whilst also monitoring and encouraging Reginald’s brain back to consciousness and keeping up this external conversation. “You are trying to do too much.”

“Now, I don’t want to hear anymore talk like that,” Butch lightly chided without looking up; “if I were doing enough then Reginald wouldn’t be lying here in a medical bed with his chest sliced open. But after the day you’ve had, if you need a rest-”

“No. I can do this.” With the medical bed recharging Reginald’s armour, Gamma had a constant power supply. He was weary, dealing with too many processes at once without having the time and capacity to properly end ones he was finished with. But going at full capacity, he could do this. “I will do this for Reginald, so that he has something pleasant to wake up to. What makes you happy indirectly makes him happy.”

Butch gave a dreamy sigh. He _did_ love to see such devotion. “Gamma, sometimes I’d swear blind that you care more for Reginald than I do.”

“Perhaps. You are often too busy caring for absolutely everyone.” Although at least Reginald came at the top of that pile.

Butch’s needle paused, uncertain where to dive back into the fabric. “...No, I don’t care for anyone in fact,” he admitted quietly so the resting bodies wouldn’t hear him.

“I... do not have the necessary processing power right now to comprehend that. It does not correlate with your actions.” Gamma struggled, not willing to let his attention to the other two tasks drop simply because the human wanted to be cryptic. Normally he loved deducing cryptic humans but not now.

“Why do you think I’ve set my heart on keeping this project together?” Butch asked softly, calmly sliding the needle in and out again. “Don’t you worry; I’ll answer that for you. You see, somewhere I feel at home, surrounded by cheerful friends, is what makes _me_ happy. There’s not a drop of altruism in my whole body. I’m selfish to the bone, and my marrow’s a tad egocentric as well.”

“I... comprehend.” It took a moment to perform such a fundamental shift in how he interpreted Butch’s actions, but then his processes ran even more smoothly. “Yes. Now your reasoning is a lot more relatable, to try so hard for your own sake. That you appear altruistic because of it is cleverly deceptive as well.”

“I don’t like to worry myself over such silly things as how I appear to others,” Butch said, giving him a momentary glance before admitting. “but it certainly doesn’t hurt either. I _do_ like to keep up a reputation as a team-player, regardless of the utter monster I am, and I’d like to think I do so rather well.” He smiled a proud smile, not bothered by anything he was saying. “No, I simply know the less than glad truth that no one in this world has your happiness in mind except you. You can’t eat a cake that hasn’t been baked, and you can’t enjoy happiness that hasn’t been made.” Nonetheless, inadvertently helping others wasn’t a bad thing. After all, it tended to earn you favours in the long run, not that Butch trusted anyone enough to cash them in.

“You do not think Reginald cares about your happiness?” Gamma asked, causing Butch to pause. “Do you care about his?”

Butch sat still for a moment, an uncomfortably long moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid Reginald’s a naughty, old rule-breaker; firing live ammo at Texas, refusing to follow Carolina’s commands, and putting all that... gosh-darned effort into keeping this project together for me,” and he said it with a sadness-tinged smile on his face. “...He’s such a better person than I am...”

“He thinks that you are a much better person than he is,” Gamma betrayed to Butch. He liked seeing such a vulnerable, surprised look on the other human’s face. “He thinks it very often when he looks at you, particularly when you are inventing solutions or dealing with other people.”

Butch’s gaze dropped to the floor, his knees tucking up a little closer to his chest where he sat. One hand came up to fidget with the end of his braid, a rare tic of his. “...I don’t suppose there’s any chance this is one of your lying days today?” he asked softly.

“No,” Deceit answered enigmatically, because it betrayed nothing either way. “And you should finish your sewing; the audio files will be done soon.”

On cue, anything to escape the emotional moment, Butch threw himself back into his current work with vigour. No happiness of his was going to slip away today, not when there was still so much he could do.

Gamma continued sitting by the datapad working for another 10 minutes or so, long enough for Butch to finally finish his sewing. Then their next work could begin, and the tiring AI could finally disappear back into Reginald for some rest. The human wouldn’t rest just yet though, taking himself over to Carolina’s bedside and holding the datapad near her head but concealed by the bed, his actions invisible to the camera over in the corner. This was unlikely, but everything he could do was better than nothing.

Once ready, he pressed play:

 _“Hey. It’s time to get up. Come on! You can’t just lie in bed all day!”_ And then there was Allison’s laugh. Gamma had copied it perfectly.

 _“Agent Carolina... My dear girl...”_ And the Director’s voice. Butch wondered how Gamma could have made it so tender without them ever having experienced it for reference. _“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for... Please! Not you too... I-I... I can’t lose you too...”_

_“Come on, baby. You’re going to be late.”_

_“Carolina? Darlin’? Can you hear me? Come towards my voice!”_

_“You have to fight this! You can’t let it win!”_

_“Open your eyes! A Freelancer – my **best** Freelancer – wouldn’t go down like this!”_

_“Don’t give into it! Don’t let go! You’re not allowed to go like this! Not until you wake up and say goodbye.”_ There was a twitch, just the slightest twitch. _“You never said goodbye, and it’s okay you’re not here right now... But you have to come back. I’ll never stop waiting for you to come back.”_

“...om...?”

“Well, hello there, sleepyhead!” Butch cheerfully leant over, entering Carolina’s dark, swimming vision. He waved at her fluttering, sharp green eyes until he was certain she was going to stay awake. “You had us so worried we all had litters of kittens while you were out. Adorable little things. Wash is just going to love them. But now you’re back, and that’s all that matters.” Talking loud, being obnoxious, helped cover him closing the audio file and bringing up an innocuous, half-finished game of solitaire instead.

“...or... Flor-?” Carolina’s cracked voice turned into a cough as she tried to struggle up to sitting too quickly.

“Now, now. Take it easy there, soldier.” Florida placed a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, keeping her at rest. “You might have been having a nice, long rest these past two months,” Carolina tried to sit up and speak again but could only rasp slightly, and certainly couldn’t resist Florida’s caring hand forcing her down, “but you’re not out of the woods yet. FILSS?” he called over to the panel on the wall.

“Yes, Agent-? Oh! You are awake, Agent Carolina! This is splendid news,” the computer chirped happily. “I will alert the doctors immediately. They will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you, FILSS.” Florida couldn’t be more pleased with how this was going. “Now, anything I can do in the meantime, just say the word.” Perhaps that was a little insensitive, considering the struggle she was having trying to speak.

Carolina pointed across the room to where there was a tap and some paper cups. Once he brought her back a drink, she struggled up to sitting despite his dadsy protesting. “Wh-What happened to Wash and Wyoming?” she asked as soon as possible, sounding almost guilty as she looked around at the other two occupants of the room.

“Well, our dear Washington had a slightly troublesome implantation just over a week ago. They’ve had to remove his AI completely first thing this morning but we’re hoping the next time he comes round he’ll be safe and sane again.” Carolina looked down at Wash’s still body with a weary, drawn face. “And my darling Reginald just had a bit of an accident earlier, got slightly attacked. Nothing serious,” Butch said with a too cheerful smile.

“No, perish the thought that not being able to even sit up is a serious problem. Bloody hell...”

“...Reggie?” Butch span where he stood, simply staring.

Reginald raised a weak, white gauntlet in hello, his face tilted onto the side to face his lover. “What the hell are you doing all the way over there, mate? You missed the all-important wake-up, you pillock.” He tried to smile but it was easy to see how pained he was. “And ah, our dear Carolina is finally awake. I’d sit up and say hello but I don’t much fancy my lungs falling out of this great gaping hole in my chest.”

“You look like shit, Wyoming,” Carolina teased, seeing the tear in his black bodysuit that slightly blood-mottled bandages were painfully apparent through.

He chuckled. “Ah yes, and being in a coma for two months has turned you from an ugly duckling into a dazzling swan, my dear.”

Though not normally her concern, Carolina did start trying to peer at her reflection across the room in the window to the observation room. From here she didn’t look that bad but she didn’t doubt it was probably worse than appeared. “Oh, don’t you worry about him, Agent Carolina,” Florida joined in whilst she was gently pressing at her slightly gaunt face. “Reginald becomes a big grumpy-puss when he’s in pain and I can tell you that, for having been in a coma for two months, your hair looks fabulous. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Placing one hand on Wash’s bed, Florida vaulted the other unconscious patient to return to his lover’s bedside, seating himself very close and carefully leaning in for lots of snuggly Eskimo kisses. They knew Carolina was probably rolling her eyes at them, maybe gagging, but she soon had a whole host of doctors fussing over her, poking, prodding and prying.

Reginald watched with a jealous frown. “I’m awake too; where’s my hullabaloo?”

“You were only out for a couple of hours, Reggie.” Carolina’s AI were out and being examined too.

“Hm.” York soon came barrelling back into the room, completely ignoring the doctors’ orders for peace and quiet. Eta became surprisingly animated in his presence for some reason. “Must be about dinner time then. Being nearly killed makes you awfully peckish, you know,” Reginald suggestively remarked.

Butch pinched his cheek teasingly, promising to go get some food and maybe a nurse’s outfit to wear when he got back.

* * *

In the end, everyone let the project officially blame Texas for the attack on Wyoming, saying she had done it before leaving to steal his AI and equipment to grow even more powerful. Both Wyoming and Carolina were out of recovery within a couple of days whilst Wash remained a little longer, still unconscious. Carolina was pushing herself as hard as possible, of course, to regain her lost strength and get back to full power to go after Texas.

As for Reginald, his chest remained tender for a while but the wound healed up quickly without issue. Aside from headaches and slightly impaired reaction times, his head symptoms all cleared up within a few days as well. Butch liked to think his excellent nursing was to thank for the quick recovery, although more technically it was simply the superior protection of Reginald’s armour in the first place.

Still, there was plenty to keep himself busy with whilst Reginald got all that all-important rest. Today was finally Ricky’s birthday and Butch was up early preparing. His ducklings were going to have the best darned party their daddy duck could give them and what with the news Wash’s condition had improved overnight and might wake up any time now, it could be a double celebration for everyone at this rate!

Humming to himself, Butch walked down the corridors to the rec room after leaving breakfast in their room for Reginald – he had been sleeping in lately, as he should, for his health – with a box of grey paper and scissors just waiting to be turned into chains of paper-pelicans.

“Hey, Barbie!”

Butch stopped. He had been using one of his back-passage shortcuts around the ship and turned to see someone had joined him in the shadowy corridor. “Why, Agent Texas! And here I thought you’d gone rouge.”

“It’s _rogue_ , you idiot.” She stepped up to stand face-to-face with him.

Florida had to look up a little but smiled just as ever. “No, I believe the rumour is you’ve painted your armour a dashing pinkish-red and joined a cabaret. I bet you dance a lovely can-can,” he chuckled at his own joke. It was a legitimate rumour, but one he himself had started.

Texas rolled her helmet in lieu of being able to visibly roll her eyes. “Whatever. I’ve got something really important to talk to you about. That’s why I came back.”

“I’m all ears- No, not literally I suppose, but I’ll listen just as gladly.” Florida looked like he couldn’t be more pleased to see her back.

“Do you remember these?” Texas held up C.T.’s dog tags. Florida stared at them. “Omega left without them but I came back last night. I couldn’t get into them for months since the encryption kept resetting but while I was off this ship I picked up something to help me. They’ve got everything on them, everything about what this sick, twisted project really is.” He finally looked at her face, but again he was staring and without a smile. “It’s big, Butch. And I’ve come to you because I want you to help me with this, help me to get some justice for everyone the Director’s screwed over in his stupid, mindless pursuit of...” She trailed off, almost sounding too sickened to say. “I’m here because I trust you more than anyone else, Butch. And remember what you promised when we first met? That you’d even keep a secret from Wyoming if you needed too?” He mutely nodded. “Well, this is one you have to keep from him, and believe me he deserves it; I think Gamma knows what’s in these files. I found knock knock jokes deep down in the encryption, as if that little blue bastard thought I couldn’t get that far. I don’t know if Wyoming knows too, but probably since they’re in the same head. If that’s so, he’s been lying to you big time. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Texas finished, surprised she’d gotten to say so much without any of Florida’s daft comments.

Florida was simply staring between the dog tags and then Texas’ visor. His mind was obviously trying to comprehend a lot at once. “Just what do you intend to do now, Agent Texas?” he asked with a distant edge to his voice, as if still deeply thinking.

“I need to get to the bridge and I need there to be no one there when I do it. With this,” she gestured the dog tags still hanging from her hand, “we have all the evidence we need. But there’s someone I need to see first, that I need to... save,” her voice turned gentle, “before I bring this project down.”

“...And then that will be that, I suppose. No more Project Freelancer for anyone,” Florida said, eyes on the tags. “How sad for everyone who has such a happy livelihood on this ship, although it would be a wonderful thing for you to be back with the Alpha, Beta,” Butch said, eyes on her.

“...What?!”

Butch shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to destroy all the happy lives people are living here just for the sake of such a silly little thing as justice. It’s a sad thing I can’t keep my best friend and my project in one happy home but-”

“What the hell, Butch?!” Tex yelled, her hands now fists. “You know?! You’re in on this?!”

“Well, let’s see. You must have dropped Omega off somewhere – Switched your helmet radio off while he was in someone else perhaps, you sly devil? – because he’s been a great help to Gamma in all this in order to keep it from you.” Butch was simply musing, completely oblivious to her anger. “I imagine he can’t be too far behind his favourite host though. I’ll have to make this a ‘Welcome home’ party for him as well at this rate,” he said, shifting the decorations in his hands. “Hoo boy, I _am_ going to be busy today.”

“Omega... That bastard!” Tex lashed out and punched a dent into the wall with ease. Butch frowned at it and tutted. “I knew he was hiding something! He could see everything I was thinking but I couldn’t see everything of his, is that right? You seem to know him better than me!”

Rather than get a dent punched in him as well, Butch took a step back. “Before I tell you, you should try to see things from his side.”

“Oh? Yeah?” Tex sounded positively fascinated to know what justifiable reasons he might have.

“There’s a lot that your little buddy enjoys here; he has the Alpha to torture, his brothers to talk to. And I’m afraid, since the Alpha loves you, he doesn’t care for you very much.” Or, at least, that was Gamma’s reason for disliking the Beta.

“And that’s good?!” Tex rounded on him. “You want everyone to be happy so badly that it doesn’t even matter what that actually takes, what you end up helping them to do? You think that _parties_ ,” She violently smacked the decoration materials from his hands, sending them flying to clatter against the wall, “and being friends are more fucking important than doing what’s right?”

Butch looked upon the strewn decorations distastefully for the impoliteness of the gesture, folding his arms as he turned back to Tex. “I’m afraid I fail to see how ruining the lives of all these innocent crew members is the right thing to do. The thought of making all those people unemployed and unhappy,” He shook his head; “that doesn’t seem like justice to me.”

Tex looked into his eyes and saw nothing. There was just vacant space where conscience, a sense of morality, should have been. “...So you’d rather live in a lie built on shit than end Project Freelancer?”

“Now, that’s hardly the kindest way you could have described it,” Butch chided. “I know you know nicer words than that, Beta.”

“Stop, fucking, calling me that; it’s Tex.”

Butch inclined his head slightly. “Still fond of your Freelancer name, are we?” Tex said nothing; that was a stupid issue. “Oh, very well. You’ve got me,” he admitted, grinning. “It’s my dream to keep this damaged, immoral little project I call home together; it’s simply perfect for me here, and that’s all I care about.”

“Well, whoop-de-fucking-doo for you,” Tex drawled, adopting a slightly smug posture. “With your shitty life, I’m surprised you’d ever let yourself dream.”

“This is my very first dream,” Butch told her very proudly. “And I think it has such a chance, even if there are a few _party-poopers,_ ” he looked to the discarded decorations briefly, “that need to be dealt with. But it’s nothing a little hard work, back-handed dealing and blackmail won’t fix!”

Tex barked once with laughter. “Wow Barbie! Now I actually feel sorry for you,” That wiped the beaming smile from his face, “because you couldn’t keep this shit together now no matter how hard you try.” She stepped in close, speaking in a low, maliciously pleased tone. “Do you know the war’s over? Or has the Director failed to mention that to you?”

That actually got Butch blinking. “...What? No!” he laughed. “Are you trying to pull my leg? You can’t expect me to believe we wouldn’t have heard if-”

“17 days ago. Some guy named Master Chief – I don’t know, never heard of him. Apparently he finished the whole Covenant off somehow, or so I hear.”

Over two weeks ago? But no, they had TV here, the internet. It would have been on the news, all over everywhere. The Director didn’t have _that much_ power.

Did he?

Something was thrust in front of his face, a phone with a news story on it that...

He did.

“Was it worth it, Butch?” Tex asked as he flicked through, making sure there were no mistakes. Owlishly, his face looked up in disbelief, utterly shattered. “You finally let yourself have a dream and look how it’s left you.” Easily taking the phone back from hands that willed it away, willed it not to be real, Tex turned to go. “You know what, I’m not even going to bother. This whole project’s going to fall to pieces soon anyway; the Director can only do so much without support and now they don’t need this project anymore, they’re going to stop looking the other way and realise what it’s done. Well, I’m going to leave this crapshack behind now and go find a decent life, one that won’t come to pieces around me. Have fun with the pieces, Barbie!”

He watched her go, a back of black armour – A best friend he had wanted to hold onto so badly that he’d kept all the lies so she didn’t have to – retreat into shadows.

And Butch collapsed to the floor

Defeated.

* * *

So HappyFunBallXD did another adorable piece of art for my fic after this chapter went up - God, I love her for doing this so much! - [which you can also find here](http://happyfunballxd.tumblr.com/post/128441875296/okay-so-this-was-the-most-hilarious-an-cute) so be sure to check out the rest of her awesome RvB art while you're there!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it was all going so well... I've not played any of the Halo games, and the dates are a little off if you've been paying attention, but this is RvB so forgive me?
> 
> Is Ricky's crimson hair and love of ducklings a reference to HappyFunBallXD who has commented on every update so far and does a wonderful new RvB drawing every day? Maybe. Maybe it's just random character padding. (I kid; it's for you!)
> 
> Next time, Wyoming vs. York (and a locker) and Florida versus...?


	19. Breaking In, Up and Out

Butch eventually came back to their room. “Ah, that didn’t take long, mate.” Reginald didn’t even look up from where he was lounging in bed with a book, covers tucked up to where his bandages stopped with Gamma standing on his shoulder reading too.

“No. No, it certainly didn’t,” Butch said softly, beginning on his armour. The room smelled nice, like fresh blackberries and tea; homely. By that alone Butch could tell Reginald had had a shower and sent for tea – So like him. Then just to snuggle back in their pillows with a book, oblivious to all the pains of the world; darling.

“Hm? All right?” Reginald did look up when he heard armour pieces being shed, one eyebrow quirking with concern.

“Just dandy.” It was so easy to reply, to slip out of this suit unthinkingly and saunter over with a smile on his face and a bit of sway in his hips. Reginald’s gaze hungrily followed the zipper sliding down, Butch peeling himself out of his body suit easily to slip back into bed. Book was set aside, Gamma logged off and Butch pressed forward with the kind of kiss you lost yourself in.

Reginald was gentle handling his lover, even if he was the one injured. He was palming Butch’s arse, purring into his neck as his lover very insistently communicated what he wanted. “My, what nice little thing befell you while you were out, eh?” he teased in a low, playful voice.

Butch had no idea why his face forced out a grin, one that didn’t let him reply. He was so passionate pressing forward with kisses and rutting even though his cock had barely had time to get hard yet. He knew he was too eager, so obvious and that Reginald, being Reginald, was bound to see through it, but Butch also knew he could count on him seeing through the next layer as well; _ignore my problems, just give me what I need. Save me._

And yes, all Reginald tried to do was keep up with the fast kisses and desperate body forcing itself against him. Even when his mouth was free, a pair of hot lips moving down his arched neck instead, he said nothing.

Not until a forgetful hand ran over his chest, pressing in a circle around one nipple, and he had to heavily wince.

Butch drew back immediately in horror at his actions, snapped from his comforting reverie. “Oh! Gosh! I didn’t...!” His heart was pounding, his eyes startled wide. “Oh, Reggie, darling, I- I’m so sorry!”

Sitting back against the pillows, Reginald shook his head. One hand was resting on his chest, but not the bandaged part, and his head was bowed, breathing in that rhythm only acute pain can produce. “Yes, appreciate the enthusiasm, love,” he weakly joked. There was a sharp edge of pain to his words, not intentionally angry but lightly warning. “Don’t quite appreciate having my chest wound prodded and crushed as much.”

Butch hadn’t even realised it but yes, with his whole body pressed up against his lover’s Reginald must have already been enduring some discomfort during the kissing.

He sat back astride Reginald’s lap, legs tucked under him, staring down at his own thighs and eager arousal. Reginald wasn’t even the slightest hard. “Oh God... I really am so sorry, Reginald,” Butch hissed, pressing his eyes shut and repeating the words to himself that could always stop tears. No crying now; this wasn’t his time to cry.

Reginald sighed, patting one of Butch’s hands. “No harm done- Well, no serious harm done, anyhow. Besides, it’s about time we had sex again. I was starting to forget why I keep you in my bed.” Between the painkillers and lingering symptoms of Reginald’s mild head injury, things had been pretty chaste since his attack.

Butch found a smile to wear, even if it was only a fragile one, and then made a show of considering their positions. In a moment, he had a plan which he gently knelt up to murmur into his partner’s ear. “What do you say?” Butch pulled back with a trail of kisses along Reginald’s jaw afterwards to ask.

One hand toying absent-mindedly with Butch’s dog tags – They always wore them under armour and he hadn’t removed them with the bodysuit – Reginald tugged gently down on the metal chain. “I say you should get your head down there and get apologising already.”

Butch flashed a grin and let his head go down, starting the kisses just below the bandages and continuing down until he could take Reginald’s soft cock between his lips to stroke it with his tongue. It quickly began to firm and fill his mouth, becoming too much to fit at once – Butch never understood why Reginald always frowned at the complimentary associations he made between the length of the sniper’s preferred choice of weapon and his own, more personal length, but he could be difficult like that at times.

But right now he had Reginald groaning with pleasure, his legs bent up either side of Butch working between them. Dropping a few lower kisses onto his balls after raising Reginald up to his full length, Butch sat back and turned around. He waited patiently, his mind still half-thinking of other things but only in the uncontrolled way problems too big to dismiss linger.

Once a slick, oiled finger worked itself into him from behind, all the worries fell aside like meaningless shards. Reginald fitted neatly behind Butch in the same relaxed, knelt posture. There was some space between them so there wouldn’t be a repeat of earlier but the hand holding his hip, gently thumbing along the top of Butch’s hipbone and into the soft dip above it, made them feel closer than any lack of distance could. “Comfortable?” Butch had near perfect control of his body; he never tensed when more fingers or width were pushed into him. This morning was no different but he somehow seemed tense nonetheless.

“Oh, stop worrying, you!” Butch lightly teased, not looking back. “Who’s the injured one here, hm?” A position he didn’t have to look Reginald in the face was easier right now, as much as he disliked it. Lying, using sex like this; Butch knew he would tell him the instant afterwards once he’d taken the comfort he needed to face the facts himself. But it still pained him to be caught in his dreadful habit of smiling and pretending at the worst times.

“Ah, that would be me. Freelancer’s ever-valiant, self-sacrificing white knight,” Reginald boasted.

Butch laughed like he didn’t have two fingers inside him stretching open his arsehole.

“Yes? Got some objection to my utterly unbiased self-description, have you?”

“How could anyone at all object to describing you like that?” Butch teased. “I’m simply glad to finally know why you can only move diagonally during missions.”

Taking ahold of Butch’s hips, Reginald dragged them back to his cock a little more forcefully than necessary. “It’s bishops that move diagonally, you twit. Knights move two one way then one to the side.”

As he braced himself slightly for the penetration, Butch twisted round with a curious look. “Now, that can’t be right. Since when do horses go sideways?”

“They leap two forward then attack off the side of their horse,” Reginald explained as he adjusted his hips and held himself to Butch’s pliant body. “Or alternatively fall off, as some see it.”

Butch mused on that as Reginald slowly pressed into him, drawing back out once to then thrust in again with more confidence. Chess and all logic games weren’t his strength at all, but, “How curiously quaint! I don’t suppose-”

Sirens began to blare. A ship-wide alarm.

Reginald’s rhythm faltered as they looked up at the sound. “Good Lord, man. I knew I was good but I didn’t think they needed to sound an alarm when I get started,” he joked, left bewildered as to how to now proceed.

“Intruder alert. Intruder alert.” FILSS’ voice filled the room. “Breach in security: Level Zero.”

Butch turned back to him, slipping off Reginald’s erection easily. “Reggie, you are an absolute wolf in bed, I certainly agree. But I believe we should go and investigate this right now.” He got up, picking his body suit back up to begin dressing again.

Reginald actually whined to be denied this time. “But we haven’t had sex for days, love.” Butch offered him an apologetic smile. With a sigh, even Reginald got up and went to fetch his armour. He hadn’t had reason to wear it since being attacked and putting the body suit on with an erection was not the easiest way to begin again but he knew he was up for duty now, so long as no real fighting was involved.

“FILSS?” Butch was talking to her panel in their room as he attached the top plates of his armour. “Yoo-hoo in there! FILSS?”

“Must be busy with the rest of the ship,” Reginald guessed, coming over. “Gamma? Can you get in?”

Manifesting briefly, Gamma gave the panel a long, deliberate look for a second. “Of course I can,” he huffed. “Did you think I had become as useless as a human whilst you were lying around on your ass?” He had been in a particularly fickle state of mood ever since Sigma’s attack but at least he complied, slipping into the panel to check for them.

A few moments later, Gamma delivered a report from the security footage; “It is Agents Texas and York. They are both making their way through the ship. I am unsure where they are heading-”

“Texas is heading to the bridge,” Butch said with certainty.

Gamma considered that. “Yes, it appears she is. She currently still has some way to go and will be intercepted by foot soldiers FILSS has sent along the way. I doubt they will stop her, but they will slow her down. Agent York is taking a more careful route through unauthorised passages lower down in the ship.”

Butch considered the situation for a moment as he attached his last pieces of armour, clipping the ammo belt into place around his chest. He only had his helmet left now in his hands. “Have all the foot soldiers been sent to intercept Texas?” he asked. His calm tone was full of power and the other two simply waited on him.

“Most have been sent to Texas’ position. A few were on stand-by attending to other tasks. They are preparing to fight now as well.”

“Send them to a position to meet up with Reginald,” Butch ordered before turning to his partner. “Direct them and intercept York. I believe he will be trying to create a distraction of some kind.”

Reginald stared, still more clumsily attaching his own armour. “...You’re telling me how you know all this later.” But he agreed.

That decided, Butch fixed his hair ready for his helmet, asking, “Where will I be able to intercept Texas at her current rate of progress? Preferably alone.”

That calculation took Gamma a little longer. In the meantime, Reginald blurted, “You can’t be meaning to fight Texas! You’ll get your ruddy arse kicked in!”

Butch gave him a sharp, sideways look briefly before slipping his helmet on. “No one else on this ship stands a chance against her,” he declared in a simple, light tone.

“What about our dear Carolina?” Reginald was almost amused at the arrogance.

Butch’s lack of answer lingered for a quite obvious second. “I haven’t spent over two years training with her daily to learn nothing,” he carried on.

“I can guide you to a position where I believe you will be able to intercept Agent Texas,” Gamma interrupted to say. “Reggie, I will need to stay in FILSS’ system to do so; is that all right? I will continue to guide you as well.” With what basic connection remained between them, the human could detect a slight concern for leaving his host for the first time since he was attacked.

“Yes, it’s fine, mate.” Reginald didn’t relish the cold draining feeling of the plug being pulled from his mind as Gamma slipped away, but he tolerated the moment it took for his mind to clear before putting on his own helmet.

Butch handed him his sniper rifle and watched him secure it on his back. In their one final moment, Butch reached up to take ahold of Reginald’s helmet in his gloves, bringing his own up to bump the fronts together tenderly. “Now, be careful. I want to see you again later.”

Reginald chuckled. “You’re the one going after Texas.”

Butch drew back from the helmet kiss, departing in an instant like a royal blue shadow. With more tiredness and reluctance, Reginald left as well, following Gamma’s directions through the ship.

At the meeting point with the half a dozen foot soldiers still awaiting instruction, most of their directions came from Gamma to spread themselves out around the passages York might take in the hopes of catching him. Two of the foot soldiers, however- “Oh, good Lord. Not these two...”

“You got injured recently, Agent Wyoming!” one informed him in a far too eager tone.

“Yes, that didn’t escape my notice...” He was rubbing at the front of his helmet, trying to walk fast enough to get away from the two that followed at his heels like puppies.

“It’s our duty to Floriduck to ensure your safety, sir!” chirped the other as they almost skipped along in delight either side of him.

Wyoming glared at one of FILSS’ panels as they passed. “You could have told me going along with Butch’s plan would mean having to babysit Tom and fucking Jerry here.”

“I could have,” Gamma admitted in a smug, blasé way as if he was just loving this.

Wyoming grumbled about it, as they laughed even at themselves, but he did have to admit he could count on two of Florida’s ducklings to be devoted defenders if he got into trouble. With the slight pain his chest was giving him simply walking and breathing – Two things he really didn’t have an option to stop doing right now – he was really hoping to avoid a fight. Gamma had sent him to the area around the locker room where York had last been seen before disappearing out of sight so there was a chance of running into him, but also a chance they could simply clear rooms and get out of this unscathed, let everyone else do the work. Wyoming knew he didn’t have much chance of stopping York in a fight in his current state but keeping him talking or slowing him down might nicely wrench up Texas’ plans which was all that really mattered.

He sighed again as they headed to the locker rooms themselves; the stupid pups were eager at least and he knew they weren’t awful fighters. Project Freelancer had standards even for its basic troops. These two though – Butch had insisted he learn their names were Lysander and Nicu before swiftly adopting them into his brood when he learnt they always wanted to hear his stories about the dashing, astounding gentleman he was lucky enough to be lover to – would just not shut up right now.

“Dude, we get to fight with Wyoming!”

“Awesome!”

“Just clear the room, lads.” Why they were so obsessed with him he’d never know.

“All clear, sir!” Went up from both of them even though they had barely stepped into the locker room. They had their guns up as well, as if they actually expected to have something to shoot.

“Dear God. It’s like idiot in stereo...”

One chuckled. “Nice zinger, sir.”

“Kiss-ass.” You couldn’t even insult them without them liking it and fighting over the insult it seemed.

Wyoming didn’t have the patience to deal with this right now. “Shut up. Look over there.” His chest was sorely throbbing and he was just plain tired. Any traces of arousal had definitely subsided once he encountered these two – Their crushes on him were just too weird to even acknowledge – but he still wanted nothing more than to be back in bed with Butch. “Now, where are you hiding...?” Even seeing York would be preferable to dealing with these two any longer. “Knock knock, mate...” And he really didn’t want to see York.

“Hey, who’s there?”

The noise of dropping from the ceiling startled Wyoming too late with his current reaction speed. At least he’d gone for the young lads first. “Knock knock.”

“Ah, yes. Let’s play; who’s there?” Now, this was a fun day. He got to shoot at York with a pistol and then throw a bench at the cocky poser. Nothing personal; York had just been driving him mad over the past few days teasing him about getting so badly beaten up. “Agh!” Damn it; punched. Dazed. Reeling backwards across the room towards some of the other lockers.

“It’s York!” Locker door to the face. “Hello.”

What? He didn’t even register and just took a swing. “Who’s there?” Easily dodged.

Thumped in the back. “I told you; it’s York.”

“Agh.” Blast his swimming head. His helmet felt like a fishbowl. In such a state, he fell into his most natural defence, adopting the boxing posture from his teenage years. “It’s York... who?!”

Oh, good Lord that was not-!

Dark, crashing pain.

* * *

Why Texas had come down to the lower parts of the ship where the vehicles were stored was beyond Florida, but perhaps he’d have the chance to find out. It must have been to recruit York, he supposed.

Hearing shots from down the hall as the large, metal doors slid open, admitting a fast-moving, black being into this section of corridor, Florida stepped out into the centre of the passageway.

Tex skidded to a halt. “Florida.” My, she sounded almost pleased to see him. “Are you going to stand in my way?”

“Why yes, Agent Texas, I am,” Florida answered her, looking down at himself standing there, hand on one slightly cocked hip, “camply, as is my custom.” She snorted slightly at the joke. “I thought you told me you were leaving.”

“Well, would you look at that!” Tex replied with high sarcasm. “I lied to my best friend! Who’d have thought _that_ was possible?”

Her words gave him slight pause. “...You would still call me your best friend, even after what I’ve done?” Florida asked more sincerely.

Tex didn’t want to get caught up in this discussion, but she gave him his answer. “Yeah, I would. Because you make me laugh, Butch. You’re fun to be with and you were a good partner. You’re a good person, but supporting this is not a good thing.”

“Good and bad are very complicated little words, soldier,” he instructed her with his wagging finger out. “But every story with a villain needs someone to play them, and today I don’t mind being yours if you want to a shot at being the big hero.”

“You know,” Tex said, punching one fist into the other palm before dropping into a fighting stance, “I’ve looked forward to the day I get to fight you even more than fighting Carolina, although I can’t wait to settle things with her too.”

“Well, isn’t that the nicest thing, you fiery rascal?” Florida fell into his own position of not adopting a fighting stance. “And I must say, I’ve always thought a good bit of playful rough-and-tumble is all two friends need to set aside their differences.”

“You’re so full of crap, Barbie!” Tex laughed as she launched in.

“Well, I invite you to beat it out of me then!” Florida laughed as well, being forced into revealing his true stance quicker than most opponents could break his deceptive trick. Tex gave him no space for mistakes as he dodged a fast flurry of attacks, remembering her personal fighting style when she was without Omega assisting her mind.

After a jumping scissor kick caught him, sending him sprawling back across the metal floor, Florida flipped back up with knives in hand, knowing Tex would never fall for his usual tricks of pretending to be worse than he was after all they had been through.

All the hunting each other missions that were like tag with guns. All the hand-to-hand training sessions they had tried to outdo one another with the most outlandish moves. All the times he’d dragged her into the rec room to play with him and all the times they’d spent bullshitting and falling about laughing with 479er in the hangar.

Butch saw all those times in his mind as Florida darted in, going straight for the robotic body’s vitals – Fixing her arm, learning how her special body operated.

Tex deflected the knives unarmed, using her forearms mainly to move with the blades and push them aside rather than let anything get cut – Cutting out paper-pelicans for 479er’s birthday together, then drawing dicks on them whilst he wasn’t looking to spoil his fun.

Florida went straight in for her stomach, underneath the breastplate where he could twist and rip all her internal electronics – Messing around passing notes and sharing withering looks when they were stuck in the mechanics bay doing engineering lessons.

Tex brought her knee up just in time, barely, knocking the knife away with the top of her kneepad before Florida blocked her follow-up kick – Trying to kick his ass for stealing her motorcycle on the way back from one of their special missions together; Agent Texas did not ride pillion.

One of his weapons disarmed, Florida pulled out another from on his back and again went in for the attack with a spinning motion. It was hardly anything special, took little effort to block, but it turned out to be just like him; a clever trick through-and-through.

“Damn it!” It hadn’t been a knife but his stupid, collapsible tomahawk – Why did he have to name it T.C.? Why did C.T. have to be the only one who had been doing the just thing and they had taken her down together? – The blade had flicked out and caught Tex in the shoulder slightly. But her surprise led her to push the axe away too quickly and that left her with a small opening she knew Florida wouldn’t miss.

“Butch!”

Now Florida was the one that startled and Tex had him in a second, slamming the side of her hand into his wrist to disarm him before grabbing that and twisting, pulling him into an armlock behind his back with ease. He would normally have had plenty of ways to break free, and she would normally have snapped his neck or at least knocked him unconscious before he could pull half of those, but both had stopped at the sudden, synthesised voice.

“Gamma?” Florida asked, utterly unconcerned for his current position.

Gamma was shouting down the corridor slightly from where FILSS’ nearest panel was but his voice was clear, and it was clearly panicked by how hurried he spoke. “Reggie has been injured! I can’t get ahold of the medical team and I can’t get to him myself. You need to go help him, Butch!”

Florida stilled, a very different kind of tension overtaking his body than the fight had given him. Tex released him and he staggered slightly back to his own feet, seeming torn.

“For old time’s sake, if you’ll still listen to me,” Tex said, snapping him back from his daze, “go to him, Barbie. Keep the one piece you definitely can. I just left the Dakotas fighting behind me so this project’s going down. But keep him,” she lightly punched his arm as she walked on past; “you’ve got a great love there. Don’t forget it.”

Nodding, Florida quickly gathered his discarded weapons and began to head off to where he needed to really be. “One day, Agent Texas,” he took one final moment to call after her.

Tex turned back briefly and nodded. “One day, Butch Flowers,” she said with a bit of a laugh.

He lingered just one second longer. “And good luck to you. You go get them, hero.”

She didn’t stop, she didn’t look back; that was the Texas he knew.

* * *

Disengaging the gravity; Florida had to hand it to York as his feet slipped off the floor and he had to start bouncing along the walls instead. This was certainly better than he probably could have done as Tex’s break-in partner. He likely wouldn’t have been as stupid as to fire upon the ship he was riding in, but this gravity thing was quite spectacular.

After helping a few crew members along the way struggling with this new lack of reliable flooring, since he somehow found this very easy to adapt to, Florida reached the area where the foot soldiers’ locker rooms were and Gamma called him over, presumably for directions.

But Gamma didn’t talk.

At least, not from FILSS’ panel.

_“Reginald is in the closest room, along with-“_

“Are you in my head, Gamma?!” Butch hissed slowly, body almost shaking where he floated gently in the corridor.

 _“No. I am in your armour.”_ Gamma explained, far too intimately for comfort. He was talking through the helmet’s inbuilt speakers but the connection felt even deeper than that. _“I want to be taken to Reggie. This is the quickest way.”_

Butch kicked off a nearby part of the wall to propel himself, and his hitch-hiking passenger. “Well, the polite thing to do is to ask first,” Butch informed him, his voice still tight with restrained anger.

 _“Through your armour’s connection to your neural implant, I have some limited degree of integration. However, I do not need that to know you are very angry right now, Butch,”_ Gamma said impassively.

The human caught the edge of the doorframe, swinging them into the right room. “That’s because, if you recall, I’m **not** supposed to have an AI in my head.”

_“I cannot hear your thoughts, Butch.”_

“And I can’t tell if you’re lying to me, even though Reginald supposedly can.” His irritation eased slightly as they entered the room and Butch had something else to think about and assess.

Once they drifted close enough to Reginald, floating over near one of the walls in an unconscious, lifeless posture, Gamma left. Butch couldn’t tell when, but the next time the AI spoke it was manifesting over the white suit of armour. “Reginald has suffered another impact to the head, this time the front, and his collarbone is slightly fractured. He is unconscious, but those are his only injuries.”

“Well, that’s a welcome relief,” Butch said a little more cheerfully, taking the limp body with ease and moving it back down to the floor; the gravity was bound to be brought back online at some point after all.

He had a bit of a skip in his float as he kicked off the wall over to the other two, assessing them as well. Bullet wounds but not lethal. He took his canister of Biofoam out, doing what he could with the limited medical supplies he carried in his armour.

“I... did not do well today,” Gamma began slowly from where he had continued simply to stand over his host.

“Now, don’t go building yourself such a big frown to wear; everyone makes mistakes,” Butch assured him warmly, laying down the other two bodies as well. “We’ll count up what we have left, learn from our little slip-ups and come back much stronger next time.”

Gamma looked down at Reginald lying unconscious on the floor. “...Next time?” he said questioningly, and then logged off.

Butch sighed, tucking his legs up slightly to sit in the air as he rubbed at the forehead of his helmet. Gamma as well now?

He sat there until the whole ship crashed minutes later and everything was thrown on its end. The planet’s gravity engaged and all his work being careful with the bodies was for nothing.

He worked all day with the medical team on the injured crew members they had, and helped take away all the ones that didn’t, in the end, make it.

He listened all day as news came in, passed around the ship, or he saw the results themselves: The ship had crashed, Texas was gone, York escaped, Carolina plunged to her death off a cliff, Maine- Sigma stole her AIs and perpetrated her murder. The Dakotas had fought, both alive but mildly injured. Wyoming had been attacked by another Freelancer again.

Only he and Wash remained in any decent state-

No, he met Wash again at dinner time.

Only he remained in any decent state.

They had a party that night, as planned. After all, the war was finally over, Agent Washington had awoken safely from his coma, and it was still, in spite of everything, a certain special duckling’s birthday today.

Yet, it felt like they had nothing to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that was the last full-on smut scene of the story at the beginning there. Sorry peeps.
> 
> We've still got a few chapters to go. I've got some more of my art on the way for one of them, if anyone likes that. Anyway, thanks as always to everyone who leaves comments and kudos!
> 
> Next time, Reginald's hospitalised AGAIN and you get to continue watching Project Freelancer fall apart from the perspective of those left behind.


	20. Ship and Pendulum

“Here we are again.”

“Yep. Just you and me, buddy.”

Butch sat at the bedside, Gamma on the side of the bed. The same bed, with Reginald unconscious again.

“I don’t like to admit it,” Butch sighed slightly, “but we’re really quite bad at this looking after him thing.”

“Agreed.”

It was just past 3am, the day- well early morning after the attack. No one was paying attention to visiting hours anymore; no one was paying attention to anything like a rule anymore it seemed. Reginald was sleeping under a sedative, having come round not long after being attacked before letting one be administered a few hours ago so he could get some proper rest. The Freelancers had gotten the privilege of proper beds in the primary recovery room and South lay sleeping naturally on another, curled up in armour but strangely devoid of her brother. Butch hadn’t had the time to even ask how things were between them after their fight with how busy he had been earlier, but since North had been the one to bring her in it couldn’t be too bad.

Although he had grabbed 10 minutes during the afternoon to ask how Reginald was, it had been in a more professional capacity than as a lover. All he wanted right now was to hear Reginald’s voice, to hear a joke or something silly and British; all of these blows to the head were getting dangerous and Butch kept worrying that-

He shook his head. The amount of guilt he felt for this was already unhealthy – If only he had been the one to side with Tex, or had done something to stop this long ago – and punishing himself imagining awful outcomes didn’t help at all. This was his time to indulge as he saw fit, now all the work he could possibly do was done, and Butch was going to force himself to use it positively if needs be. God knows, he could never corral his dark, raw mind inside but if he allowed his cheerful facade to take over and stop him thinking, that could work. “I hope you’re going to have some great new jokes for Reginald when he wakes up, Gamma,” Butch began to the AI.

“He already woke up before,” Gamma flatly responded. “I don’t want to share any jokes with him anyway.”

“Well, that’s unusual, if I may say. I do hope you haven’t been fighting in there whilst Reggie’s meant to be getting better.” So the AI was still in a sulky mood. Well, no time like the present to work on it!

“His brain is unresponsive to me whenever my host is unconscious,” Gamma informed him, simply staring blankly in his direction.

“But what about when he was responsive, hey? Why didn’t you want to share any jokes with him then?”

“He could not appreciate them properly since he was stupid enough to get his head injured again,” Gamma said.

Butch wished Reginald was awake simply to tell him what were lies and not here. The AI often felt like a teenager and right now, Butch hoped that interpreting it like one was therefore a good move. “Are you feeling guilty, Gamma?” Butch asked rather knowingly. He got a petulant lack of response. “I know you’re worried about Reginald, but that’s no excuse to try and shift the blame onto him in order to feel better yourself.” There was plenty of blame to go around for both of them, but none ought to go to Reginald.

“Why would I be feeling guilty, broken source?” Ah, one of the AI’s adorable little insults for him; both fitting his computerish nature and attacking Butch’s most painful subject.

“You told me that you felt quite a lot to blame for him being attacked by Sigma,” Butch remembered to the AI’s displeasure, “and I imagine that had some impact on his abilities during the fight.”

Gamma considered for a second, before coming back with another rebuttal; “If he had not been telling knock knock jokes, he would probably have been paying more attention when York attacked.”

“Well, that may be, but I can tell you that Reginald barely ever made a knock knock joke before you came into his life, Gamma- At least, except to annoy York,” he corrected. Perhaps that one had some more accuracy to it. “So, you naughty little fibber, how about you tell me just why you’ve been acting out so much lately before your pants end up like Sigma’s?”

“There is no reason because I am not ‘acting out’,” Gamma responded brusquely, turning his head away with a jerk.

“Oh, now don’t you lie to me!” Butch playfully scolded, reaching out to prod at the AI’s form with a finger. “You’re having a little tantrum, and that’s all right; things have been very stressful for us all lately. So why don’t you pull up a seat and tell old Butch all about it?”

Flickering out then in again, Gamma moved an inch along the bed away from Butch and his bothersome finger. “I am already sitting and you are the youngest Freelancer. You are also an idiotic and vapid tosser who I only put up with because you are my human’s fucktoy.”

“Well, gosh!” You had to chuckle. “You _are_ in bad mood and denial!” Butch wondered what Gamma’s face would look like right now if he could actually portray expressions. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it, Gamma?” The AI stayed silent, simply staring at the wall. “Well, all right. But I’ll leave my ears open for you just in case you change your mind. They’re always open for you, by the way.”

Still ignored, Butch instead turned to the resting form on the bed. He knew Reginald would wake up and be just fine again soon, but right now looking at his vacant, sleeping face... It was somehow different to his usual sleeping face. Something was wrong, a lack of comfort or peace perhaps. The fact he wasn’t asleep willingly showed in his features somehow and it made Butch uncomfortable.

He dropped his gaze instead to where Reginald’s right arm was lying at his side. He still had his gauntlet on right now, but it was simple enough to slip off and put aside. Butch held the bare hand in his own, doing nothing but taking time to appreciate Reginald’s hands; he had long fingers of medium thickness, pretty average for his size probably. But there was something about the way they were smooth and yet hard at the same time. Whenever Butch felt them running over his own skin they were nearly always cool but so firm, so certain with him even when Reginald was being gentle, and he was gentle a lot. Butch traced his own fingers over all the lines, the sections of each finger’s underside, recalling all the times they had held his body as if it was so precious and irreplaceable. These were the only hands that had ever understood and respected his body, that had brought him pleasure with their touch. They weren’t like any other hands he had ever known in his life.

Whenever they slept in the same bed, Reginald always wrapped some part of himself around Butch, even if it was nothing more than slipping a foot around his when they were lying back-to-back. Butch could never get up without Reginald knowing. Reginald was always taking notice of him, what he was up to, where he was going, even in his sleep. Maybe that was the problem now, as Butch sat here caressing his hand and receiving no response.

Butch wanted to have one of _those_ nights again soon, and it would be perfect whilst Reginald was recovering. Those nights when all the standard erotic areas of their bodies were left out of the game and it was only hands and lips, and even other parts like noses, wrists and ears, caressing the too often ignored parts of their bodies. Appreciation for the forearms, the curve of their back, the different skin tones on the front and backs of someone’s shin; that was so more than sex. Butch couldn’t thank the girls at the brothel enough for teaching him how incredible and worthy of attention the whole human body was when you loved someone. This was them. This was all of them. It was really love when you could say you knew every part as well as the face you woke up to each morning. It was all those parts that stopped it being sex and empty relationships; _‘Be with their whole body, Taylor, if you want to be with them your whole life.’_

He’d been ‘Taylor’ back then, ‘Taylor Fenshaw’. Gosh, he had been able to be just Butch Flowers here for so long he wondered if he could still go back to-

“Reggie will get rid of me if I keep failing him.”

Butch turned, leaving his introspection.

Gamma was still staring at the wall but he was speaking again. “I have caused him nothing but trouble lately. I am worthless to him. I am scared that... he will want to discard me as well.”

“As well?” Butch questioned softly as he sat up slightly. But Gamma wouldn’t answer that. “Oh, you’ve done plenty to help us lately, Gamma, and Reginald would never abandon you even if you hadn’t! You know how much he cares about you really.” He was scared. He was acting out and pushing away because he anticipated being abandoned that strongly he would cut all ties to make it hurt less when it came. “Now, it might be a little hard to believe, but sometimes some special people still want you around even when you cause them nothing but bother.” God, how many times had he let Reginald down and needed help, especially when they first met? “And then you can bet your hat on those special people to always care about you no matter what you do.”

Gamma sat silently for a moment, still staring at the wall. Then he dropped his head sharply to stare at his feet. “...I do not have a hat to bet on Reginald.”

Butch laughed, reaching out to pretend to fuss the AI. “Well, how about we get you a little cowboy hat to match ours then? A nice tan colour with a sky blue ribbon would suit you to a tee. You’d look a darling picture in it.” Gamma was joking again; all was right in the world.

After considering things for a moment, Gamma sat very still, processing. A moment later, a little hat appeared on his head in just the style Butch had suggested.

Butch wanted to gush. He wanted to have his datapad or camera to hand so he could take a photo of the completely adorable little AI. He wanted to hear Gamma say, ‘Yeehaw!’ and ride a tiny horse.

“Yeehaw.” Well, he got part of his wish, even if the delivery was hilariously atrocious.

But all of a sudden, someone else was chuckling along too. “Good Lord... Remind me not to leave you two alone again; you both go daft as brushes,” Reginald commented dryly, in both senses of the word. He was weak and struggling slightly, but his spirits seemed moderately high, higher than could probably be expected. He gave Gamma a kind greeting when the AI transported up to hover by his face, then forced his eyes open again to look over at Butch’s slightly worried face. “I’m all right, love,” he said wearily.

Butch put his hands on his hips and frowned. “What was the last thing that I said to you before the attack.”

“Be careful?”

“And what were you not, mister?”

Reginald sighed, amused but unable to really play along with Butch’s scolding. “I don’t remember being anything except hit in the face with a blasted locker...”

“Actually,” Gamma corrected, having taken off his hat, “it was your clavicle area took the heaviest part of the attack. The impact on your face was secondary.”

“Ah, of course. That’s a great comfort...” Reginald rubbed at his collar area now, very gently. It hurt a little to move his neck but that wasn’t the worst. “Yes, I’d have thought being hit in the back then front of the head might cancel out but I’ve never felt worse. I feel like death warmed up...” He was keeping his eyes shut as a rule whilst they talked. “Can’t you do something, Gamma mate? Can’t you...?” He waved a vague hand.

“No, I... I could try to change the nerve information coming from your inner ear to make you feel less dizzy, but I do not know how to do so safely.” Gamma twitched and jerked as he spoke a little more uncertainly than usual. “Omega only taught me how to affect your five basic senses with hallucinations and incite pain or pleasure. I am not confident about interfering with your sense of balance and/or proprioception.”

“Oh, very well,” Reginald hummed. “I’d rather not chance it on the off-chance you might make it worse.”

“Yes. That would be for the best,” Gamma said, head tilting down. His sense of perception caught Butch opening his mouth to speak however. “I could try singing you a lullaby,” Gamma suggested quickly. “They are meant to be soothing.”

“After last time?” Reginald chuckled at the thought. ‘Last time’ had involved him laughing so hard during the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep that he had woken Butch up and nearly rolled out of bed. Just because Gamma could modulate the pitch of his voice, it didn’t mean he could sing.

“No. Perhaps not. I could dance,” he suggested next. “I can only do the Robot but I can do it very well.” And he proceeded to demonstrate his moves anyway, dancing to a silent beat.

Reginald opened his eyes for that, laughing at the small show Gamma was putting on just for him. “You’re too kind, little chap. But I’m all right. You needn’t try so hard to cheer me up.”

“Gamma’s just worried you’ll abandon him because he’s felt so useless to you lately,” Butch said, proving he could play the speaking-quickly-before-you-do game too. “That’s why our little blue computer-tyke has been acting out so much.”

“What...?” Reginald looked between the AI and then to Butch. “Really?”

“Absolutely. He’s become a regular little teenager; scared of being abandoned or forgotten so he’s pushing us away first, the silly goose.”

“And that’s why he’s been throwing all these tantrums?” Reginald asked, still to Butch. “Good Lord. Whyever would he think that?”

“I’m manifesting right here, you know,” Gamma pointed out to the humans.

“Ah, sorry, mate.” Reginald looked at his hovering form with a concerned lift in the middle of his eyebrows, awaiting the answer directly. His AI wasn’t looking at him, but it was certainly paying attention in their head. “Gamma? Don’t trust me to say why, eh?” Gamma’s thoughts were skulking, trying to stay hidden. AIs had a bit of a luxury in that way, being able to encrypt them or transfer them into their host’s armour and other systems. “That’s all right. I think I can guess.”

_“Of course I trust you, Reggie,”_ Gamma finally said, only to him. _“And yes, I am worried I am becoming worthless to you after getting you injured twice in the past week. I am not being very good support. I am not... able to look after the one person I truly care about.”_

“Gamma, I won’t ever abandon you like that. Not for anything you do.”He still didn’t know the full story, but Reginald had gathered enough over their four months together to guess why Gamma associated being worthless to someone with being discarded from them. “Even when someone I care about hurts me greatly, you know I never abandon them no matter what it costs me.” _“You’re the only one who really knows that. Not even Butch.”_

_“Reggie...”_

He reached up, his human hand taking and cradling Gamma to bring him closer, into his chest. “No matter what you want do, where you want to go, you’ll always have a home here you can come back to at any time. That’s a promise. All right?”

“Yes.” Gamma let himself be laid down, resting on Reginald’s replaced breastplate.

“And you next, I suppose,” Reginald said, turning his face up to Butch. “Any feelings of yours you need to air, Butch love?”

“Me? No, I’m doing just peachy.” Butch smiled but it was a smile that made Reginald raise an eyebrow for some reason. The smile broke, after a moment, as Butch seemed to reconsider something. “Actually, I don’t suppose in all this commotion that you heard the news...”

“News?”

Butch sighed. “There’s a lot of news, I’m afraid.”

* * *

Reginald was allowed out of recovery later that day. The medical staff were too busy and care for him was simply given over to Butch. With the Project now purposeless and the Mother of Invention grounded, everyone was simply treading water, waiting for orders. Life kept circling in its daily patterns.

Or rather, people clung to the patterns.

26\. Too many foot soldiers had died, most of them at Agent Texas’ hands – How was that ‘justice’?

Only five Freelancers remained – “There’s only half of them left.” “Yeah, well, there won’t be any of them left soon.” “Or us.” – and the Director wasn’t giving them any orders. People simply survived, trying to treat this as some sort of schedule break.

Reginald spent most of his time in their room resting, recovering. When Butch wasn’t there during the days he would sleep, write or amuse himself with Gamma. When Butch was there they had plenty of time to be together; just talking, watching things on a datapad or gentle sex. It was possible with Reginald’s chest now mostly healed so that it could take pressure and let him breathe properly. His head and neck remained delicate, and he got easily dazed and tired, but his spirits remained high if the volume of his snarky, humorous complaints was anything to go by.

North and South seemed to be in each other’s company a lot, but yet it didn’t necessarily mean they were close whilst there. All training had ceased so they spent their days in the rec room most of the time like a couple of bored teenagers, lounging on the furniture, watching TV, complaining there was nothing to do except complain there was nothing to do.

Wash was... Everyone worried for Wash. He would wander at nights, treat nearly everyone like a threat and often cease to socially function in the middle of a conversation or activity, breaking down into tears or suddenly attacking people with swears, insults or fists. At other times he would cry, cling to things like a child or talk without stopping for hours on end about rambling, loosely connected subjects. North and Butch, the only two people he would trust within two metres of him, tried and were there for him as often as they could be. But when Wash spent hours locked in his room, unresponsive to anyone, forbidding FILSS to let anyone in, they just had to shrug and leave for now. Wash had taken to wearing a sweater with ugly, poorly knitted kittens on it all the time; it was the only consistent thing about him anymore.

And Butch made his rounds. He was out of his room often enough going around the ship. Yet all his ducklings agreed it seemed more like he was just keeping up with news, waiting for the next order. There were no initiatives he put forth for morale, no helpful heads peeking round their doorways or friendly chats in the mess hall. The ducklings met and discussed the future, what they could do for Project Freelancer, as a group but he... didn’t. Butch didn’t seem to be doing anything now, except occasionally helping North with Wash and spending his time on himself. And they didn’t know what to do.

No one knew what to do.

There was an axe waiting for them somewhere up in that icy sky. That was all Butch knew. He was just waiting, watching, to make sure he and Reginald could try and dodge it when finally...

It fell.

* * *

Florida was skipping on his way up to the bridge. Just like the very first day he had been taken there, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

He’d been asked to report there in _armour_.

Did he have a mission? Was there something he could help with?

After all, if this was news the Project was shutting down, why would they be telling him alone? This had to be something special he could do for them, for everyone; even the Director now had to appreciate the state Project Freelancer was in and be considering ways to make things all better.

The Director would never give up. Even if it was towards unjust or immoral ends, the Director never gave up and found any way possible to keep fighting for his dream; Butch really admired that about the man, regardless of their other issues.

He came to the large, sliding doors of the bridge, only able to catch the last few words of an utterance through the metal; “-one we can trust. Might I suggest Flowers, Sir?” the Counsellor said, presumably to the Director. That was strange; Butch assumed the Counsellor had merely been passing on the Director’s orders to him, not spearheading this himself.

“Flowers?” the Director replied. “You mean Agent Florida?”

There was his cue! “Ready for duty, Sir!” Florida made his entrance, very happy to be saluting the two of them. “And might I say, pleased as punch you picked me.”

The Director seemed accepting, but not all that approving just yet. Butch cocked his head slightly but grinned to himself as he awaited the details. “Hm. We’ll need a good cover story to explain his disappearance,” the Director said. “People will wonder what happened to Florida.”

His what?

As in... himself? Florida wasn’t aware he had any plans to be disappearing in the near future, but all right! What was this then?

“Leave that all to me, Sir.” This was entirely the Counsellor’s scheme. He had this, something, planned before he’d even brought it up with the Director.

Florida turned to the screen, frowning as he- Well, the state of Florida broke off and drifted apart. He really was disappearing then. It would have been kinder to inform him of that fact ahead of time, he felt.

“Very well. But security is not enough,” the Director continued, paying no attention to the events on the wall behind him. “The Alpha needs anonymity.” The Alpha? “A place where no one would think to look for it.” They were just... talking about the Alpha right in front of him?

“I believe I know exactly the place.” The Counsellor had an idea again, already. Well, wasn’t that hardly a surprise?

“Show me.”

“Sir, I-” Florida began, pausing when the two men turned to him from staring at their table and datapad. “If you want me to disappear, I assure you I’ll do the best darned job possible of it. But where am I to be disappearing to? Or rather, should I say, from?”

He looked to the Counsellor, knowing the answer would invariably come from him. “From now on, Agent Florida, everything we tell you in this room is in the strictest confidence. No one is to hear a word of it.” The soldier nodded. “You are being assigned to protect a very-”

“The most,” the Director interrupted.

Bowing his head to his superior slightly, the Counsellor again continued, “The _most_ valuable asset of this project; the Alpha.” Protect it? He could self-answer what from and it already had his heart crashing down through his organs. “Just before the end of the Human-Covenant war, Project Freelancer was granted the use of some training outposts, simple army bases on out-of-the-way colonies. We intend to place the Alpha in one of these, unaware even of its own nature. We would like you to be the security detail, to ensure its survival.”

“...For how long, might I ask?”

“For as long as is needed, Agent Florida. It may be a long while, I am afraid.”

“And... I’m to be assigned to this mission alone?”

“Yes. You are the one agent we can entrust this to,” the Counsellor said in his soft, calm voice, as if he wasn’t dropping the bombshell to ruin someone’s life. “There are certain preparations we need to now make; your neural implant chip will be upgraded to be capable of holding an AI, in case the Alpha comes into danger and you need to remove it from its robotic body.” But he wasn’t meant to- “We will give you further instruction in how to care for the Alpha and your duties as well. You will also be receiving a new suit of armour to disguise your status as anything other than a standard soldier, and be promoted to Captain so that you can be made leader of the team the Alpha will be placed within.” Well, that was one plus. “After that, there will be time for you to briefly collect your belongings before being deployed.” The Counsellor smiled at him. “Is that all acceptable to you, Agent Florida?”

He looked to the screen beside him again; not a single piece of Florida was left. Just empty, lonely ocean. “...Yes,” Florida had to say.

“Good. In that case,” the Counsellor continued, tapping on his datapad, not even looking at him anymore, “your estimated time of departure is two hours from now.”

Two...

Two hours-?!

“No.”

Both Florida and the Counsellor looked to the other man in the room with surprise. The Director was still staring down as his table, at his plans, but his gaze was elsewhere. “Agent Florida has 24 hours, Counsellor. On one condition.”

24?! “Just name it, Sir!” Florida excitably agreed.

The Director didn’t speak for a moment. He just closed his eyes, bowed his head and was still. In time, he turned to Florida, looking upon him with those sharp green eyes. “Don’t say goodbye to him, Flowers. Because... if you don’t say goodbye,” the Director closed his eyes again as he said hollow words, “then you aren’t really gone... You’re just not here right now...”

Butch bowed his head as well, remembering memories that weren’t his to know. “That’s very good advice, Sir,” he responded gently. “I’ll be sure to take it.”

The Counsellor wore a slight frown, but he bowed to the Director’s wishes. “As you wish, Sir. In that case, would you like to follow me to medical, Agent Florida?”

Florida agreed, following the other man and leaving the Director staring down at his plans, lost in them.

The walk down through the corridors to medical was quiet, slightly hurried perhaps, but with the same level of calm composure both were renowned for always showing.

“It was awfully kind of you to select me for this mission, Counsellor,” Florida suddenly remarked once they were about halfway there.

The Counsellor looked to him, skin around his eyes creasing slightly as he smiled. “I am glad you think so, Agent Florida.”

“And I don’t suppose it would have anything to do with a couple of silly, little covert photos I took of you, by any chance at all?” the agent enquired light-heartedly.

The Counsellor’s smile changed slightly. “Indeed. I was so impressed by those pictures you took of me, I can only assume for training purposes, that I simply had to recommend you for this assignment.”

“Well, wasn’t that clever of me to take them then?” Florida said with a laugh, completely ironically. He had been such a fool.

The Counsellor simply continued to smile and led him into medical. They were to install a blank data crystal chip in his neural implant for the Alpha, should the need arise, and it was a simple procedure involving a local anaesthetic and then five minutes of work.

His junior doctor duckling, Daya, administered the anaesthetic and Butch found himself wordless when he thought of sating her curious, broad smile and telling her what this was for. No, he didn’t. He simply acted the part of wanting this, happily accepting his duty, and tolerated the zero gravity and small drilling necessary with a calm, unfaltering smile. He let his mind wander to considerations of this being the same process Reginald had gone through with Gamma, but he couldn’t let his mind linger there for long.

After medical he was taken again, led to pick up his new suit of armour – Aqua. Well, it could have been worse but it would never feel right compared to his true royal blue – before the Counsellor took him aside into the deserted classroom nearby to instruct him about the Alpha and the details of his mission:

The Alpha was being placed into a robot body like Agent Texas’. It had all the functions necessary to fool the Alpha into thinking it was human; the capacity for eating, sleeping, even sex should the need arise. With the Alpha’s memories having been fractured off into one of the fragments, Florida was told, it wouldn’t remember anything about Project Freelancer. They had been filling it with new memories instead, telling him he was a coma patient with amnesia and this was his life. The Alpha was in a horrific enough state right now for that to work.

His job was to ensure no one, including the Alpha itself, discovered its true identity and to ensure its survival. Should the need arise, the Alpha would remember everything necessary about itself with the use of the codeword ‘Aletheia’, just as he had his AI chip in case its body got into trouble and he needed to take the Alpha elsewhere himself. Otherwise, he was simply to play along with the playground-like conflict they had set up, drafting in a ragtag team of four unwanted recruits from the rest of the military to make two teams of three. There was little chance of actual injury or death from the simulation troopers; the orders would be just as useless for both sides to ensure as little actual fighting as possible. It would be a charade, and the soldiers he would be playing it out with were the most ineffectual the Project could find. There was absolutely no chance they could beat even a single Freelancer so Florida’s survival was practically assured.

The Counsellor didn’t tell him the name of the place he was going to; Butch could guess why. He was simply to stay there until Project Freelancer no longer needed him there protecting the Alpha in a secure location, however long that would take. “But that is your mission, Agent Florida. Do you understand everything I have just instructed you with?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then your departure is scheduled for 1000 hours tomorrow morning. Until that time, you are free to do as you please. However, I must repeat that not a single word of this assignment is to be told to any other being, or technological entity, on this ship. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then,” the Counsellor gestured him towards the door, “you are free to go enjoy your final day, Agent Florida.”

“Thank you.”

Florida left, going off on a long walk around the ship, to there.

There...

Once he was there...

Once he was there...

Florida went to the long, half-packed storage room that looked like a short corridor from the outside, where they had first met three and a half years ago, and once he was there, threw his helmet and gloves off to rub at all the tears running down his face.

He had failed.

And he just ended up with wet hands because there were so many tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

Collapsed against the wall, just inside the left side of the door, Butch knew it was all his fault, that he had done so much wrong with this.

It was his fault for blackmailing the Counsellor, for betraying Texas, for not acting on his suspicions about C.T., for not even being able to complete basic training without getting court-martialled, for being stupid enough to get caught by the police and forced into the military-

No. No, no. He needed to back it up a few steps there. No matter how much pain it was causing him now, meeting Reginald had been right, had been worth it.

But it **was** his fault for not keeping this project together. He hadn’t worked hard enough to save Project Freelancer and this was his punishment. If he had saved Project Freelancer it wouldn’t now be taking its revenge on him in this way.

Project Freelancer had given him Reginald, and he couldn’t even repay that by saving it.

Hiccupping a sob, Butch pressed his hands to his tear-soaked face again. He couldn’t get up. He couldn’t go to...

How could he face him?

Reginald had promised to always be there, to put Butch first no matter what the mission was because Butch’s life and staying with him were more important than any order. He knew precisely what Butch needed after a life of instability and he had provided every last thing. He hadn’t said a single judging word about Butch’s past or any of the accommodations he had needed to make for it.

But now that past was tearing them apart; Butch now knew he couldn’t avoid the transience that had characterised his life even when there was finally somewhere he wanted to stay.

Reginald didn’t deserve this.

Yes, he had been trying to help keep the Project together as well but only for Butch’s sake. All the hard work he had ever done was for the sake of making the one he loved happy, and Butch could confirm he had succeeded hundreds of times over.

And then Butch brought this into his life in repayment.

What a goal... What a stupid dream he had dreamt and now ruined both their lives with. If he had chosen to elope together that night, rather than being too greedy for this...

Butch stared down at the blurred, metal floor he sat on. The ship... This ship he had called a home. He had no doubts FILSS was monitoring his every action very closely right now; it was too much of a risk that he might try to tell someone where he was going and what for. Too late for escapes now.

A noise of anguish tried to escape him but Butch choked it back, covering his mouth. He could taste the wet salt all over his skin, feel the soreness of it on his cheeks as he finally felt all dried out. His head was spinning with thoughts. He felt sick. He wanted to sink. Just down, down, all the way through space...

There wasn’t even a down in space...

His tear-flecked eyelashes pressed tightly together, a few more rolling slowly down onto the back of his hand.

_Of course you’re sad about this. You have an awful life and you’ll always have an awful life. Don’t bother crying about it. Just smile and live it._

Butch felt the ends of his mouth press up against the inside of his hand. His cheeks lifted as well, pushing up on his eyes. He had to open them, to get up, gather his gloves, put them back on, pick up his helmet, put that back on too, lift the bag with his new armour in.

And go to where he should be.

* * *

0239\. Butch stepped into their room and listened to the door close instantly, nearly silently, behind him. He’d heard that quiet noise so many times. How many more now?

Reginald was sitting at the desk, frowning over the screen of his datapad slightly. Currently he was leaning on one arm thoughtfully rather than typing on the projected keyboard. Butch always thought he should be wearing glasses whenever he was reading or writing; smart, fashionable-looking rectangular ones, just to give him that intellectual air. But he supposed he wouldn’t be around now for that day when Reginald would grump, sigh, make a joke about getting old but ultimately need to wear reading glasses for the first time.

Gamma was stood on the desk, looking at Reginald not the screen. He looked stiff, attentive but somehow radiated pleasure just being in his host’s company. The two of them had become so close, the perfect team. One of them would go first though. Either Gamma would go rampant or Reginald would die. Butch hoped it would be the second, and he hoped AIs died with their hosts.

“’He was as charmed as a whole basket of snakes’,” Reginald said, not looking back; “good simile, or just pretentious twaddle?”

“I like it,” Butch declared softly, watching the author rub his lips back and forth together slightly, obviously still not happy with the line. Reginald’s father had taken his work to a publisher’s a few weeks ago for the first time and there were good noises coming back. Butch wouldn’t be there when the decision was delivered, but he knew it ought to be a yes if they had any sense. And maybe he could get books delivered to wherever he was going, and all the future wonderful things Reginald was going to write without him. If he could, without his muse.

“Hm. I’ll come back to it...” The author left it highlighted for now, trying to resume typing. Gamma had turned to Butch though, and he must have thought something because Reginald turned as well, leaning on the back of his seat and tenting his eyebrows in concern. “Butch?”

With a sorry sigh, Butch reached up and removed his helmet. He held it against his chest, in his arms, and looked back up to meet Reginald’s eyes.

The effect was slow, then in an instant. “Have you been crying, mate?” Reginald was up and coming over to him, his voice slightly raised with bewildered shock.

Butch knew; he had never cried to Reginald’s knowledge so far. It hadn’t been hard to hide though, especially since it tended to coincide with Reginald being out of the picture somehow, in medical and such. “I’ve been... given a mission,” Butch began gently.

“A mission?”

Butch didn’t blame him for looking so confused. “I’m being sent,” He glanced to FILSS’ panel behind his right, “to protect something, someone, or somewhere very important to Project Freelancer. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more details about it than that.”

Reginald’s frown became darker, angrier, but only because he was obviously able to put together the pieces. “...For how long?” His voice was quiet. Not a whisper, not a hiss, but like both.

The very low, quiet hum that pervaded the entire ship was actually noticeable to Butch’s ears now. And he felt proud for how calm and level his voice remained, even as the muscles around his mouth ached to keep that smile together. “They told me it was indefinitely, but I’m pretty certain,” he had to pause for a second, “I won’t ever be coming back here.”

There it was. Everything dropped out of Reginald’s expression, out of his life. His mouth was loose, grasping for words and his eyes began to crease up, falling at the sides, rising in the middle. Butch blinked and through slightly misty eyes he saw the gleam of sky blue appear on the sides of Reginald’s eyes as Gamma manifested at his shoulder. He blinked again and saw Reginald’s light blue irises shaking slightly as they tried to hold onto his. “No...”

“I’m leaving at 10am tomorrow morning.”

“NO! DAMN IT NO!” Butch’s vision was filled with the white fabric of Reginald’s shoulder. It hitched with a wracked sob and Butch hitched with it, held within warm, fiercely clinging arms.

“Reginald, I think today is our final day together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to draw Gamma dancing the Robot for this chapter but I've been using all my art time for the next chapter because...  
> Yes, I think you know what it's going to be.  
> And I am so sorry.


	21. I Trust You With All My Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there's a piece of art this chapter. If you can't see it, you might not get the ending part slightly. And I know this chapter might seem a little rambling and scattered but I think it's more realistic that way. Cue up some sad music for the end though.
> 
> Also TW for past child abuse.

Reginald hadn’t cried that many tears and it was easy to brush them away when he leant back after a moment, still holding tightly on as he studied Butch’s sad, placid face. “...Why?” Butch simply shook his head. “...We could go. We could escape tonight,” Reginald tried again.

Once again, Butch glanced over his right shoulder at FILSS’ panel and then shook his head. “I’m afraid not, as much as it pains me. And with my court martial sentence still hanging over me, I can’t refuse them either.” That old thing... It had bought them a lot of loyalty over the years.

Reginald cursed under his breath, trying to comprehend this whole thing. “...How many years do you even have?” He had been kind enough never to really ask about it.

“20 years imprisonment.” Butch smiled whimsically. “Although I’d have another couple more at least for disobeying once again.”

Damn it. That wasn’t something he could risk serving by trying to escape this. “Will you be safe, where you’re being stationed?”

“Oh yes. They practically assured me of it. Very little fighting.”

Nodding, that much was something to smile about. “Glad to hear it.” He was slightly choked up, confused about where or what the assignment was for, but relieved at least.

“Will _you_ be all right?” Butch lightly touched the bruised collar visible inside the neck of Reginald’s shirt.

Reginald took the slightly smaller hand and held it in his. “I’ll pull through.” He smiled, but there was too much sadness pooling in his light blue eyes. “Final day then, love?”

“Yes...”

“What do you want to do?”

Butch stepped closer and hid his face in Reginald’s shoulder, holding onto him.

Reginald held onto him as well, turning his face slightly to press a kiss onto the side of Butch’s head.

There was a small sound like the clunk of a computer fan; it was the only way Gamma could apparently cough. “I have a suggestion.” Both humans turned to him. “If you place all of your spare electronics in the centre of the room along with Reginald’s helmet, I can run the time distortion unit over this entire room, slightly extending the time you have left together. Would you like me to do that?”

They looked at each other, and Reginald took it upon himself to nod. “Yes, that’d be brilliant, mate.” Setting to it, the power pack from Reginald’s armour was set down with their datapads, his helmet resting on top. Then Butch placed down the power pack from the back of his armour in the pile as well. “Won’t you need that tomorrow?”

“I got a whole new sparkling suit of armour as a going-away present.” He gestured to the bag he’d left just inside the door. “So you can completely drain this one and then keep it.”

“Keep it?”

“I’m not allowed any links to Project Freelancer,” Butch explained, shedding the other pieces of his old armour as well; “no armour, no files on my datapad, not even those nifty Project Freelancer coffee mugs they gave us.” He was smiling but downwards, not at his partner. “So I want you to keep all of the things that I can’t take, including my armour, until the day I can wear it beside you once again.”

Knelt beside the pile, and the other pile of discarded royal blue pieces, Reginald remained quiet for a moment, finding the right words for this complicated feeling inside him. “Butch...” He finally got those indigo eyes to look up at his again. “I... If I don’t ever see you again, I’ll feel empty for the rest of my life. So I want us to promise we’ll see each other again someday, however long that takes. Doing that,” He cast his gaze aside for the moment awkwardly, “it’ll fill me at least with as much pain as hope, but at least the pain will remind me of you. If that’s not too selfish to ask,” he added, aware how much of a decision he was making for them both.

Butch smirked just a little for once. “So you’re going to associate pain with memories of me from now on, hm?”

“Ah, no...” Reginald rubbed at his forehead, sighing. “That came out slightly wrong...”

“It came out beautifully,” Butch reassured him. “And yes, I promise we’ll see each other again someday, hopefully not too long from now.” Their hands met on Reginald’s thigh for a short squeeze of assurance. Butch’s mouth had lingered open to say more, and Reginald cocked his head slightly to encourage him, but Butch simply shut it and shook his head. His eyes said later though. “Now, how’s that? Can you get it to work?” he asked Gamma instead.

“Yes. With this amount of power I can extend each hour by four or five minutes. Over the course of 24 hours, that will amount to approximately two extra hours at most.” The AI stood atop Reginald’s helmet, king of his little tech pile very proudly.

And kindly. “Thank you, Gamma,” Butch said, smiling fondly down at the small, blue man. “You’re a true marvel, and I feel very lucky to have had you assigned to us these past four or five months. I’ll miss you too, just so you know, my little blue buddy. You keep working on those jokes, and I’m trusting you to take very good care of Reginald for me.”

Gamma paused thoughtfully, then jerkily cocked his head to one side before twitching it back as he considered Butch knelt before him. And his verdict was to raise his arm in a smooth motion, and to smile.

Butch startled in surprise, his wide features then turning into a beaming, giddy grin. “Oh Reggie! Look there! Did you see that?! He can smile! Gamma smiled at me!” His words were tumbling out, one hand tugging on the host’s sleeve and the other pointing excitably at Gamma.

His bright-eyed enthusiasm was adorable. “He’s been able to do that all along,” Reginald chuckled. “He’s just not shown anyone except me before.” Butch was still staring at the AI with a sparkling smile and finally took Gamma’s holographic hand with his little finger to shake. “Is that really how you feel about him now, little chap?” He was able to hear his AI’s thoughts and Reginald was very pleased.

Gamma knew he’d have to admit them or they would just be said anyway. “I... have become fond of Butch. When you were unconscious in recovery lately, twice, Butch and I would talk. And I...” He was looking at Butch smiling more tenderly down at him, even if he couldn’t address the human directly, “am surprised, but I now trust Butch, somewhat. As much as I can. More than I ever thought I could.”

“Why, thank you, Gamma. That means a lot,” Butch admitted, before accepting he should probably return the favour. “I wasn’t very pleased when you first came; I didn’t want to share my Reginald at all.” That surprised the other human somewhat, but not his AI. “But I could never doubt what a clever little thing you are, and how helpful you’ve been to us. How much you care for Reginald really endeared me to you, and all the jokes didn’t hurt either.” He grinned; he loved Gamma’s jokes.

Gamma loved the appreciative audience. “I am glad I do not have your current fate, Butch. And I will miss you.” No lies at all. “I do not know how humans say long goodbyes to make the parting hurt less but if more time will help, then that is what I will give you.” He nodded and looked between them both smiling down upon him. “But you should not be talking to me right now; you should be spending your final 26 hours together.”

“It’s not only Reginald I’m leaving behind here,” Butch corrected. “There are lots of other very important people to me I need to give my thanks to as well.”

“Your ducklings?” Reginald asked, enduring the sensation of Gamma downloading from his mind to run the technology instead.

Butch’s face faltered slightly, and he sadly turned it towards the floor. “Ah... I was a poor leader earlier. I couldn’t tell Daya when I saw her in medical...” Shaking his head, he turned to Reginald. “I need you to look after them for me now, please.”

“I don’t think I’ll do a very good job of it – No one could compared to you – but all right,” his partner agreed, accepting custody of the gaggle that brought him nothing but headaches. But it was what Butch wanted.

Thanking him, there were various things Butch knew he had to do today before leaving that he wanted to get out of the way so they could freely use the rest of their time as they pleased. He began making a list on some paper, glad to see there weren’t too many bits and pieces to do:

 _‘Physical possessions_  
_Datapad files_  
_Ducklings_  
_Talk about that_ – “About what?” “If I tell you now then we’ll be talking about it now, silly!”  
_Make some lasting memories’_

“Hmm... Yes, I think that’s it.” And so now they had a ‘what first’ moment to deal with.

“How about we see to your datapad before Gamma drains the thing dry?” Reginald suggested since it was as good a place as any.

Butch had to go through every single one of his folders for files, anything remotely related to Freelancer being transferred to Reginald’s. He could keep his music and games at least, but it was with sad reluctance he had to let all his photos and most of his documents go. “Now this one,” Butch explained about a file called ‘MOI Crew’, “is very important. I won’t have the time to see to it today, but after I’m gone I want you to take all my spare snacks and gifts to everyone on this list to thank them for me.” The file documented every single member of the MOI’s approximately 110 crew members, all their likes, dislikes, personal information and which ones Butch owed favours to. He really did too much.

“All right. For you, love.” Reginald grumbled, but he couldn’t help feel impressed. “It’ll give me something to do while I wait for you, I suppose.” He fell silent, thoughtfully, as Butch continued working through his digital possessions. There were so many little loose ends to tie up today, and it had to be today. It felt like leaving any single one undone could unravel into countless problems and pain whilst Butch was away, otherwise. “...About that.” Butch glanced to him. “What do you want? Do you want me to stay here and wait for you in the Project, or leave and come find you?”

Thinking, Butch looked very deliberately at FILSS’ panel before turning back to Reginald. “I think it’s your duty to stay here and continue following orders, soldier.” But he held up two fingers while he said it.

“Understood.” Reginald grinned. “I’ll do that then.”

Although it was hard to say goodbye to the last of his Freelancer-related files, when it came to his physical possessions Butch’s reluctance to part was even more apparent. He did it with the same ruthless necessity, but there was more sighing and lingering involved.

“Could I possibly ask for one of your shirts to take with me, Reggie?” Butch asked, pausing in his sorting of clothes. He had changed out of his body suit by now.

“Hm? What?” Reginald startled out of his meditations on the system Butch was using to decide which clothes went into his mission bag and which stayed behind. “Why?”

“For your scent,” Butch explained simply, folding up a pair of cargo shorts with the amount of skill only a mother should have.

“Ah. That’s a good thought.” His mind was already imagining Butch sleeping with it curled up in his arms, wherever he went. The image caused a pang of longing sadness, but that didn’t stop it being adorable. So Reginald tugged off the white, long-sleeved top he was currently wearing, throwing it over into Butch’s waiting hands; he had worn it yesterday evening and for a few hours this morning so that ought to be the right balance of fresh and worn.

Butch caught it, but not without then smiling incredulously. “Well, I was going to take one from the wardrobe but I do appreciate the view.” Reginald’s upper half was left bare without it, lounging in the chair at the desk.

Should they be joking around like this? Was that all right to do right now?

Butch pressed the white fabric gently to his face, then packed it with the rest. He got Reginald a new shirt to wear for today, the white and light blue chequered shirt he loved seeing him in the most, from the wardrobe before moving on to their laundry hamper. There were only a couple of items in there he wanted to take regardless of their need to be cleaned, and one he tossed over to Reginald. It was the black T-shirt with a cartoonish, black-wooled sheep sleeping on the front. “So you can have the shirt that you first saw _me_ in as well,” Butch cheerfully said.

Reginald held it in his hands without accepting it. “...But this is your favourite.”

“Exactly.”

Nearly three and a half years ago. The things he could say to his younger self if he was to go back to that evening, that first meal; yes, this mad idiot _is_ going to become your new best friend, and a better friend than you’ve ever known in your life. And not long after that, you’ll be in love with him too. Crazy, yes, but he’s just brilliant, absolutely perfect; can’t you see it? How can’t you see the same things in him that I do now?

He would pity his younger self for not yet having Butch in his life and all the laughter and joy that brought every single day. But he couldn’t help being excited for a self that had all that to look forward to, and a self that had nearly three and a half years before he’d have to let go.

Not like the self he had to be now. Couldn’t he be that younger self again? A self that wouldn’t just have a T-shirt as the only thing he had left to hold at night?

Reginald held the shirt up to his face as well, appreciating everything that scent brought to him. He couldn’t place the actual smells, but Butch smelt like warm, calm, sweet things to him, like cinnamon, bananas and... All right, that was definitely cake. The mucky pup must have got some on this the other day. It smelt like vanilla and icing.

“Are you really going to leave behind all your snacks?” Reginald asked as Butch shifted around the new armour in his bag. “If you are, it’d be like a dragon leaving behind its horde of gold.”

Butch chuckled, patting the bag. “Have to travel light, I’m afraid. And I can always get more where I’m going, I’m sure.” He had built up such a stash though in one of the desk drawers, mainly for handing out to everyone on birthdays or in gratitude.

But Butch did set one thing aside from that drawer now, prompted on the subject.

A bag of Skittles was set aside on the desk for later and Reginald put his face in one hand because it was such a silly tradition. Just because it was the first food they had ever eaten together, it had somehow become their safeword during sex and way of celebrating every important event. It was childish and embarrassing and touching because small things like that meant so much to Butch, and the judgement of everyone else on their traditions meant so little.

Butch also tidied up his discarded armour, his proper royal blue armour, whilst he was at it, placing it back where it was usually stored aside from the part Gamma was still using. “I never would have believed it, but this time they actually managed to find some Spartan armour in my size, you know?” he chatted whilst he did so.

“Your size?” Reginald frowned incredulously. “Wait, you mean the only bloody reason you’ve been prancing about in that inferior, fashion-conscious get-up is because Project Freelancer-?!”

“Didn’t have any Spartan armour to fit a male of my size, yes sirree.” Butch actually laughed, partly because he couldn’t believe he had never gotten around to telling Reginald that. “Didn’t you ever give a little thought to why Maine and C.T. were the only other ones with their own special styles?” Reginald snorted with laughter. It did make sense actually. “Although, I can’t account for Carolina; that must be Daddy’s special favour to her.”

“Good Lord.” He was lucky to be a few inches shorter than Maine then, at the top end of heights they had had proper armour for. “And here I thought you were just being a stubborn arse like usual because of fashion, not because you’re actually a short-arse.”

Rising with quite a little temper to put his hands on his hips and glare at Reginald, although smirking, Butch pointedly asked, “Excuse me, but just what was that?”

“Just saying you’re a nice arse, love,” Reginald joked, enjoying both meanings he could imply. Butch looked more sour, but he was still smirking, just playing their game. “...I’m really going to miss this banter,” Reginald admitted more quietly, unable to stop those thoughts.

Butch dropped the play-anger, coming closer to pat his shoulder. “You and I have a special rapport like no other, Reginald,” he agreed. “It’ll be one of the things I miss most.”

“Me too...” Reginald held the hand there so he could lean his head over and nuzzle it, trying not to think about how warm with life Butch’s skin was, how today was going to be the last day he got to feel that on his own skin, and then he wasn’t going to have anyone touching him, holding him. No one seeing him as a person with a physical body for more than just fighting and work, a body that was him and not just a vessel for moving and talking out of. He was going to lose the only person that saw him as beautiful.

“...Do you keep thinking as well?” It was a long, silent moment they had drifted into before Butch softly spoke again.

“About all the last times? About everything that’s...”

Butch looked in pain, then he looked away. “I need to keep packing, I’m afraid.” Did he really want to though? When he did it with such slow reluctance, to drag it out so there was something else to be doing rather than thinking.

Reginald watched Butch work his way around the room, making sure he missed nothing that was his. Even the things that he wasn’t taking with him he often packed into a different bag, one to be left behind and go wherever Reginald went. Most things Butch didn’t have too much difficulty with.

But then he came to the things he had brought with him from his life before Project Freelancer.

The circus troupe poster he rolled up to stay behind; after all, he would always take his ability to tightrope-walk, juggle and do all kinds of acrobatics with him. The metal ear cuff he’d gotten for saving a life stayed. The black handkerchief from the first person he’d murdered was going with him.

Objects too precious to risk started piling up on the desk as he took them from drawers or his foot locker. The scuffed, hardback dictionary with a massive rip through the back cover that had taught him all the smart, intellectual words he knew and had also saved his life once; only Butch Flowers could take a dictionary to a knife fight with an armed robber and win. He kept pressed flowers inside the front cover too.

The stupid grinning turtle toy Reginald looked at with distaste. Butch hesitated on that, setting it down then pushing its head in. “I know you’re not particularly fond of that. You can get rid of it if you like.”

Reginald picked it up, examining how all its legs had retracted too with its head. It was just the disconcerting size of the thing’s grin that creeped him out. “At least tell me what it means to you before I decide that.” It was cute aside from the grin, he guessed.

“I found that in the house I squatted in the first winter after I escaped the orphanage,” Butch explained, crouched and going through the rest of their foot locker for his items. “For a whole week, trying to unlock its fascinating little mechanism kept my 7-year-old mind busy enough to forget how little I had to eat and the fact it was Christmas for everyone but me. That turtle got me through the first of my rough patches.”

“And a ‘rough patch’ would be?” Reginald asked, as ever aware of Butch’s habit for understating things. He was now occupied trying to get the turtle’s head and legs to pop back out too.

“Oh, it’s just any time when your certainty that you’re going to die within a week goes over 90%,” Butch answered casually, standing and setting a rabbit’s skull on the desk from when he’d worked as a magician’s assistant for a bit and a trick had gone horribly wrong; he hadn’t succeeded at every endeavour he’d tried. “But I’ll tell you for a fact,” the expert said; “humans are a lot more resilient than they think themselves to be. Have faith in yourself. I was inexperienced back then; I should have been estimating my chances at 60% I’d reckon now.”

Placing the shell back down, Reginald toyed with the only part left sticking out, the tail. “I don’t get how you even survived living like that, mate. 7 years old, out on the streets, no one looking out for you...” When he pressed down on the tail, the turtle popped back out.

“I think I’d just have to say luck, as uninteresting as that is.” Butch was sorting out more things; a woven bracelet and a ring to stay. A packet of playing cards, blue sunglasses and a single white chicken feather to go. “But if you were curious about that particular incident, I can tell you a trick that where a homeless woman might be turned away, a homeless mother with a 7-year-old son gets fed.” He took a moment to grin. “It was a useful little agreement for the both of us.”

A lot of what Butch had gotten up to was criminal, but morality had faded away once you learnt that had let Butch survive. With Butch having been born three years after the war started, there wasn’t a lot of help or many options for someone like him. Perhaps he should have stayed at the orphanage as intended, but Reginald was pretty certain there was a good reason Butch never talked about his time there.

Eventually Butch came to the last item of his, his box of memories. He lingered between it being too precious to risk, and too precious to leave.

Reginald had to let him decide that one alone.

Butch decided to take a third option and say something instead, “I’d like us to have both.” He pointed to the electronic photo frame that had all of Reginald’s.

“Combine them?”

Butch nodded, and all right; if he wanted all those boring old photos from Reginald’s childhood...

They set up the transfer with a lot of unskilled, technological fumbling, including a digital copy of all of Butch’s polaroids, “And now I’d like you to keep this,” and then Butch handed the box to Reginald.

Or tried to at least. “But- Surely you-?”

“All I need are the photos. Have my box, Reginald,” Butch forced it upon him.

It wasn’t about the photos; it was about the box. “All right, if you’re going to bloody insist,” Reginald accepted with a sigh. “But don’t punch me in the face like York for having this.”

“Oh, now I don’t think I could ever hit such a handsome face,” Butch patted his cheek fondly, ignoring all of the other things he had done to that face.

They had to get lunch then, to somehow eat even in spite of all that was coming. Reginald expected Butch to deal with the issue of his ducklings then, when they saw some in the mess hall, but Butch chickened out. They just brought the light lunch back to their room with barely a word.

With all the packing done except what had to be left to tomorrow morning, they had another ‘what now’ moment to deal with.

They almost considered asking Gamma to speed up time instead of slowing it down, simply to pass this agonising, inevitable wait quicker, but they knew they would regret that after they were gone. It was hard to enjoy any of the time they had left when there was that constant question of whether they would regret the way they had chosen to spend it, if they were doing the right thing. Always wondering if you were getting the maximum possible enjoyment out of every second made it very hard to enjoy any of them.

But sex was very easy to enjoy.

“I can really say with certainty, I’m definitely going to miss the sex,” Butch hummed contently from where his face was nestled between Reginald’s pectoral muscles, tracing swirling patterns on the firm, pale skin.

“Absolutely... dear thing...” Aw, Reggie was practically asleep with exertion.

Butch squirmed and contorted slightly, turning over in strong arms that held him tighter the more he tried to move. Reginald was nuzzling his face into the loose waves of hair by his neck and it brought a fond, amused smile to Butch’s face. “I think I’m all out of raw materials for making any more love with right now, Reggie.” Just in case he was trying to start something again.

From his dopey snuggling, it didn’t really seem like it. “I love the way you talk, Butch...” Reginald murmured drowsily, now rubbing against the nape of his neck like a very large cat.

Butch chuckled softly, wondering if there was any chance he was going to be allowed to move again anytime soon. “We really will have to meet again someday, you know.” Talk of that got a slightly more perky response. “There are all sorts of kinks I never quite got the chance to explore with you yet.”

“You should have said.” Reginald placed slightly more coherent kisses on the back of Butch’s slim shoulders.

“I did.” Butch sighed with frustration. “I gave 479er my neck measurement, told her what size dildo I wanted, but our lovable pilot still refused me.”

Reginald had stopped, burying his face around the time the word ‘dildo’ was mentioned. “Is there anything you’re not crassly shameless about, love?” But he couldn’t help laughing a bit when he spoke.

“Oh, Reggie! There are so many more things in this world that are far more deserving of shame than _sex_ ,” Butch tutted him. “If even birds and bees can talk about it to each other despite the species difference, I don’t see why two humans should have any shame at all in discussing it.”

The laughter was inescapable this time. “You really are as unique as they come, Butch Flowers.” That was hopefully a compliment. “Either that, mate, or I’d ask for a refund from whomever gave you _that talk_.” Butch might have known a lot of good little tricks for sex, but certain aspects of his approach to it were still decidedly child-like. “But give me your neck measurement then, and anything else you’d like.” Reginald leant in to Butch’s ear to whisper, “I’ll have a surprise for you when we see each other again.”

For once in his rare life, Butch actually blushed. “Gosh... You’re almost making me look forward to going away now.” Being separated lovers, longing, pining from afar, waiting for that one day they would finally see each other again... And all the new stories they’d have to tell, the changes to one another they would get to learn about... “It’ll certainly make me appreciate you all over again!”

“Are you saying you’ve stopped appreciating how bloody marvellous I am and how fantastically lucky you are to have me?” Reginald teased, running his tongue slowly around the shell of Butch’s ear.

“No, no!” God, that was ticklish. “Oh, Reggie; I’d have to kick myself if I ever stopped properly appreciating you!”

“Good. Or else I really would have to send you away for a bit.” The couple settled back down, just resting closely spooned together. Butch’s mind began to drift to the things still left to do in the quiet lull, and maybe now was a good time to talk about that...

“...Reginald, I...” No, he couldn’t say that. The implied accusation that Reginald might, when he had been the one to so strongly insist they see each other again. “I’m sorry. Just give me a moment to find the words for this.”

“All right.” There was no pressure, no curiosity in the tone.

Butch had to turn over to see. Reginald’s eyes did half-open for a moment, checking on him, before closing again. He was waiting.

Would he always be waiting? Would he never move on, let himself be with or even love someone else no matter how long passed?

Butch placed his hand on Reginald’s chest, feeling for the soft beat that had rested against his back for so many nights together. That heartbeat was so familiar to him, so reliable. “There’s something I’ve always admired about you,” he began, gaining Reginald’s lazy gaze again. “You’re always so astoundingly passionate about things. You care so much and put your whole heart into things, and the people you care about, even if you’re a funny thing and go so far out of your way to hide it.” Reginald huffed slightly, but he didn’t disagree. “I’ve always wanted to be able to love and trust from the bottom of my heart like that, you know.” His fingers traced fondly on the gently beating skin.

“You do a good job of pretending to anyway,” Reginald answered, sliding a hand up to the top of Butch’s back.

“I only pretend because it’s not true inside.” Butch doubted Reginald could feel anything through the back of his ribs. “I’m as cold-hearted as they come.”

“Closed-hearted,” Reginald corrected, and he was right. “I don’t know what happened to you, Butch,” but he was willing to bet from the averted gaze it was back in the past Butch wouldn’t tell, “but I’d imagine you’re used to getting more pain than love and just protecting yourself.”

“You’re just too good at guessing.” Butch chuckled softly. “But, I’d like you to know, you’ve helped me open it back up a little again over these three years. Thank you.”

“Could have returned the favour by teaching me how to close mine off...” Reginald murmured. “I’ve always wanted that.”

They had to laugh. “What a pair we are!” Butch observed, realising then, “This must be hurting you an awful lot more than me.” It hurt him more than he had ever wanted to, and not just Reginald but everyone here, everyone who had been a part of his failed dream. But he understood how pain was worth it, pain was their connection whilst apart.

“Those close to you always cause you the most pain, even when they don’t mean to. Don’t worry; I’m used to it, love.”

Butch looked at Reginald’s smiling face, but his eyes were closed, hiding. It was with a curious frown he asked, “Who hurt you?” He was cavalier to hide his own pain, his own fears about trusting and being close to others even though his open heart couldn’t help it? Or was it an attempt to change himself through pretending, just like Butch himself hoped?

“Doesn’t matter...” Reginald thought again. “I’ll tell you when we meet again; something else to wait for.” He doubted it was a particularly pleasant surprise but still.

“And I guess I’ll return the favour then.” Butch surprised himself that he felt no reluctance about that promise. He thought again about bringing _that_ up, since they were talking about being apart, but once again he chickened out from saying it Reginald’s face. “If you don’t mind indulging a silly little request of mine,” he began instead, hands fidgeting slightly, “...could we write letters for one another now? Letters for when we’re gone?” Although it took a moment, Reginald eventually seemed to see the reason. “I really can’t even begin to measure up to your skill with writing but I’d like to give it a try, again. The last one seemed to work out pretty well, I’d say.”

“Letters are something you definitely have me beaten on,” Reginald assured him. “Your last one was one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.”

“Oh, shucks...!” Butch tried to toy with the end of his braid, but found his hair was still loose. He’d really miss sitting and letting Reginald brush it for him.

“Would this be what you meant by ‘lasting memories’ then?” Reginald started on the awful process of getting up, extracting their bodies from one another. There was such a perfect amount of size difference between them too. “I expected more photos.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take some of those as well.”

“Of course, love.” Anything to fill up the time, to give them something to do together that wasn’t sitting and thinking about how their lives were soon going to be.

Lives. Not life. It had been one life together here.

They placed themselves with Butch at the desk, Reginald on the bed writing out letters. Different approaches; Butch with some sort of illegible shorthand system of planning before he wrote it all out with barely a passing resemblance to his plan once he started rambling. Reginald wrote his out on his datapad, easy to edit, clean and smooth, before writing out it again on paper with care and love. Then adding an improvised bit with less skill when it didn’t seem like enough. Gamma saw what they were doing and wanted to join in, dictating a little bit for Butch that Reginald wrote down on the back of his final sheet.

It took up plenty of time, just over an hour or so in the end. It was easier to tie up so many loose ends in a letter, bits and pieces you couldn’t think of any way to introduce aloud or took a long time to word properly. They were both proud and pleased at the end, folding the letters up and exchanging them for a later time, for whenever they needed a message from one another, even if it could only say one thing.

Then it came to photos together. That was...

“Now, as much as I normally love it – and I really do love it – Reggie... put your crotch away.”

“You don’t want a record of how marvellous it is? You wound me, mate, truly! I shan’t ever recover from this, you know.”

“I’d say right now that you look like you ought to be modelling underwear,” Butch commented, regarding Reginald’s blatantly wide legs. “But as your potential in that area has yet to be recognised, let’s have a nice, family-friendly pose, if you don’t mind.”

“This is very family-friendly, mate,” Reginald replied, then grinned; “If you were a girl, that is.”

Butch gave a disapproving smile, folded his arms and kept his phone-camera at his side. As much as he wanted photos of that type as well, they had already taken those – and obviously his adorable Reggie was still a little too excited – and now Butch was hoping to take some more general, more clothed ones. They had even pulled Gamma away from the armour for a bit so he could join in for these.

Speaking of the AI, it was looking down at the improper way Reginald was sprawled on the bed like a rentboy enticing customers and obviously thinking about something. The human seemed oblivious to it, instead trying to encourage the lens to point at him again with subtle, flirtatious shifts in his expression.

But when Gamma floated down, towards the bed between Reginald’s open legs, the attention of them both went to him. Gamma was looking at Reginald, specifically at his crotch which was about level with the AI’s head. And then he began to reach out his little blue hand towards it.

Reginald shuffled back away from the hologram’s touch anyway, closing his legs up slightly in defence. He frowned in confusion at Gamma, even as the AI floated back up to nearer his shoulder.

“Even if you can’t control his body directly,” Butch commented, clucking slightly with praise, “there’s still not a thing you can’t make Reggie do, you little genius you.” Yes, mainly through activating hallucinatory pain until Reginald complied with his wishes, but the means were never important in Project Freelancer.

Reginald huffed, submitting to various more innocent photos. “Like you weren’t in contrived model poses for half of yours...” he muttered as they went, following the directions his cameraman gave him.

“I’ve been told many times I ought to model, actually,” Butch said as he began to finish up. Pretty as he was, however, there was still something slightly disconcerting about his appearance you could never quite pin down. Probably just the glint in his eyes.

As Butch made a copy of the photos for himself to take, Reginald took Gamma back to his little tech castle in the centre of the room before looking around for the clock.

On the way though, his eyes fell on something else.

“Hm. You’ve got one of your daft ducklings in the operations team, yes?”

“Now, Reggie; there’s nothing daft about my ducklings and yes, I certainly do. I have a duckling in every team helping run our fine vessel.” And that was intentional, of course. “Is there something you’d like us to ask Cole for?”

“I’ve had an idea,” Reginald said, picking up both sets of dog tags from their bedside table. “Call it an early anniversary present, if you will. Come on. And bring your camera.”

They had to leave Gamma’s delaying influence to head towards the bridge area, talking all the way. A conversation that consisted of Butch lamenting the fact he had no present to give in return and Reginald saying he’d given enough things already today before going on to explain the plan.

Instead of the bridge, they entered the main computer room beside it. It was where the bulk of FILSS was housed and was also used as the break room for the Operations team who ran the technical bureaucracy and actually flew the ship.

Quite a lot were milling around, looked up, but only the one sat alone reviewing complex spreadsheets on his datapad whilst the others chatted startled to his feet, coming straight over. “Agent Florida. By your presence here, I imagine you need something?” Cole asked, astute and composed, but not without a skittish edge.

“I do hope we’re not interrupting any important work of yours-”

“No, no! Not in the slightest.”

“Well, that’s good. Because we could use a rather urgent favour, if you don’t mind,” Butch explained, holding up both the phone they had used as a camera and their dog tags.

The plan was explained, and Cole upjusted his glasses, frowned, but deduced a way it could be done. Reginald had thought what he wanted wasn’t actual possible when the idea first came to mind, but then he remembered this boy was like a human Delta – a quintessential sharp-witted, clinical intellectual. The first time he had met Cole wearing a green sweatervest at the time, he honestly had thought York’s AI had turned human – and Butch was always insisting there was no logistical problem this particular duckling couldn’t solve.

Reginald just liked him for being the only duckling that called Butch ‘Agent Florida’ rather than something ridiculous.

They followed Cole as they worked, Reginald simply listening to the chatter of the other two. Cole seemed tense, uncertain about his actions, but Butch was helping keep him at ease that it would work and be perfect. The lad was brilliant, an over-achiever, but pushed himself too far into anxiety; Butch had been there for him.

All of the ducklings were in some way mistreated, shunned or underappreciated. Maybe a cynical mind might say Butch had exploited that to get a team to do him favours, but if you really knew Butch you couldn’t think that. From circus performers to prostitutes, Butch always fell in with the outcasts. He was one himself after all. And Reginald couldn’t have felt more pride every time he watched Butch in his element with them. Right now, Butch was patting Cole on the back for such a good job and the other man had such a dazed, innocent smile like a child being applauded in front of his whole school.

Without Butch, he never would have learnt the stories behind all of the other members of Project Freelancer; they would have just remained ‘the crew’ and he would have been like the rest of the agents thinking they were all that mattered. But Butch had a magical ability to see everyone as equals and people with stories, problems and beauty.

And here Reginald caught his mind once again getting caught up in something he was going to soon miss. He had no friends without Butch; he was awful at making friends, even when he had so much to give. The problem of his jokester facade, perhaps.

It might be nice not to let anyone close for a while though. He was going to have enough pain for a long time thanks to this.

Back to their room, the minutes counting down, and once again Butch hadn’t told his ducklings. They had their newly customised dog tags though, and traded one to each other, slipping it onto their chains.

“Hm, don’t think we’re meant to do this,” Reginald commented, looking at the addition on the back of the tag he had received from Butch. After all, these were meant to be for identity and now they had two different ones each.

“Oh, darn the court-martialling sockpuppets,” Butch replied blithely, equally enamoured with his; “what’s another two years to add onto my sentence?”

Reginald laughed, but then they had to find a way to pass time until dinner. All of the daily things they still needed to do like that, like brushing their teeth or grooming their hair or moustache; having to do those, when from tomorrow on life wasn’t even going to be recognisable anymore, just felt so wrong. It felt like you should have been shouting, if there was anything you could shout, or fighting, if there was anyone you could fight.

Or crying.

But apparently, Butch Flowers didn’t cry over leaving the love of his life potentially forever.

“You could cry too, you know,” Reginald sniffled, temple pillowed on Butch’s shoulder. “It’d make me look like less of an effeminate prat.”

“Can’t cry...” Butch murmured, closed eyes staring at the ceiling.

“You came back covered in tears earlier.”

“...Can’t cry in front of other folk,” Butch amended, still lying there calmly. It was night, somewhere in the middle of it. They weren’t going to sleep tonight of all nights. There would be plenty of time for sleeping to pass the time they were apart more quickly.

They had made love again, and again, and now Reginald was trying to be manly while he sniffled and occasionally sobbed.

A moment after Butch opened his eyes, seemingly having had a thought, he asked quietly, “Do I need to cry? Isn’t it obvious enough that I’d be sad about this?”

“’Need to cry...’” Reginald repeated with a wet laugh. “It’s not something people tend to do for the benefit of others, mate.”

“Well, of course not. Crying never benefits others.” Butch’s declaration sounded very self-assured. Strangely so.

“Why do you think that, eh?” There weren’t any tissues around so Reginald used the back of his hand as he propped himself up slightly.

Butch turned to him curiously, his placid expression now distorted by a slight frown. “What good does it do then?”

Reginald shrugged. “I don’t know. Tells them you’re sad, I guess.” He couldn’t think of anything else on the spot, even if they were going around in small circles.

Butch returned to his close-eyed, ceiling-staring position. “’Of course you’re sad; you’re a fucking orphan. Don’t bother crying about it. All you’re doing is making noise for nothing.’” He sighed quietly. “I’ll do my selfish crying in my own time...”

“Butch... It’s not-”

“I know.” He knew, and he would never judge anyone else for it.

Selfish... It was just like Gamma and ‘worthless’. “...So the orphanage was...?”

Butch winced slightly, an old and well-worn reaction. _Nothing but hours of darkness after being thrown inside the closet. Hands yanking blonde hair and coming away with bloody strands. An adult fist coming right at-_ “Abusive, yes.”

Reginald stroked the bangs off Butch’s face tenderly, allowing him to press a kiss onto the forehead usually hidden beneath. A single tear dropped onto the skin as well as he pulled away. “I’m so sorry...” And now he was leaving Butch to deal with this all by himself again.

Butch exhaled it all, opening his eyes and visibly relaxing. And he smiled. “It didn’t happen to Butch Flowers; it happened to a different me. He’s the only identity of mine I disassociate from.”

“Well, I’d say _he_ needs to talk about it sometime...” Reginald dared to murmur.

Obviously Butch really loved him if he tolerated that in good spirits, even though he did smile a bit harder. “ _He’s_ fine. Now, how about something else before I go?” He rolled himself back over astride Reginald, pushing him down with a kiss as he rutted his hips enthusiastically.

Maybe next time then.

Whenever that was going to be...

* * *

“Although you look utterly dashing in everything,” Reginald commented, frowning slightly, “teal really isn’t your colour, dear thing.”

Butch hummed, probably in agreement, as he inspected his new armour all over. It just didn’t feel right this style. “I think it’s aqua, actually.”

“Ah yes, of course; whole world of difference there...” he muttered dryly. “...And _‘aqua’_.” Reginald huffed sarcastically. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen water that colour. It ought to be a greyish pale blue, like a proper English sea. Or murky and brown, like a proper English canal.”

Butch chuckled, checking his bag was properly packed and zipped up. 20 minutes to go and they were still joking around like they had the rest of their lives together.

But that was how they wanted it to be, how it should be. If these were going to be their final memories together then they shouldn’t be of some fake, supposedly perfect relationship. They should be of a day like any other day they had spent together, so when they looked back on these they would remember how it had always been.

This final day had been painfully mundane but it had been a good time simply because they were together. It had been spent laughing, helping, loving and somehow enough of that was allowing them to go out on a high right now.

Their final day had been wonderful, hilarious and emotional.

And now it was over.

“...Are you really going to go, Butch?”

“...I’m sorry...” It wasn’t easy for either of them to speak. Butch sounded practically in pain as he said the words.

“It’s all right,” Reginald murmured softly, standing and taking Butch into his arms again; he couldn’t stop doing it. But this time it didn’t feel right, not with that clunky, wrong armour on. “Give me all your pain. I’ll handle it while you’re away.” Butch looked up with sad, slightly shaky eyes. “Don’t worry about me; I’m good with that stuff.” _Too good..._ “Just go be happy wherever you’re headed, all right?”

“Really?”

Reginald bowed his face, resting it against the side of Butch’s head. “I might not always tell you the truth, Butch love, but I never lie to you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Butch’s ear.

Hugging back even tighter, Butch leant his head forward too. But he said nothing.

It might be years before they see each other again. They might be old and have no time left when they finally found one another. Or they might meet only to find they had changed too much and no longer loved, no longer wanted to be together, and years of waiting, of promising themselves happiness if they could just be together once more... It might all be for nothing. There couldn’t be anything worse.

If he had said those things going through his head, he wouldn’t have been able to shoulder his bag with a smile and cheerfully say, “Let’s get down to that hangar then!” as if he wanted to be doing this.

Reginald couldn’t hide his pain behind a smile quite as well, but he was still smiling too.

They walked down, and the silence made it feel long. But they couldn’t be quiet enough to make it last forever.

The hangar was nearly clear, unusual for the middle of the morning. There was just one ship – Not a pelican; one of the automated ones used for long-distance transport that didn’t belong to the Project and probably wasn’t coming back – and two people.

“Agent Wyoming,” the Counsellor began as they approached, “you are not supposed to be here. This is a-”

“Let him stay, Counsellor,” the Director cut in, briefly staring at the other three men before closing his eyes and turning away. “Let them see each other off...”

The Counsellor had to bow his head to that. “As you wish, Sir.” He said it a little slowly, as if it was forced out of him. But he always conceded to the Director. “Are you prepared to leave, Agent Florida?”

“Ready and raring!”

“Then, if you would, Captain Flowers,” the Counsellor gestured him towards the waiting ship.

That was it, then. No longer an agent of Project Freelancer.

“Why do you get to be a bloody Captain...?” But then Reginald had to go and ruin his sad mood with amusing grumbling. “I’ve been in the army for nearly seven years and I’m only a dratted lieutenant...”

Gamma decided to manifest then. “Knock knock.”

Reginald sighed. “Who’s there?”

“Captain.”

“Captain who?”

“Doesn’t matter; a lieutenant always has to open the door for a Captain.” Gamma bobbed slightly with cheerfulness.

There was a special expression Reginald reserved for Gamma’s jokes that were at his expense; it was like a glare with a small bit of a fond, big-brother-with-annoying-but-loved-little-brother smile.

The last time Butch was going to see that expression then. The last time he was going to hear a knock knock joke from Gamma too, he supposed. He had gone through so many last times now the feeling had lost all impact though.

This was just it. The last time.

“Now, don’t tease him too much while I’m gone, Gamma. It’s up to you to look after Reginald now,” Butch said, not wanting to leave out the AI that had appeared for him.

“Reggie likes being teased,” Gamma replied facetiously.

“I know.” He knew too well, and he knew too many things. How could he leave someone he understood so deeply, as if all those years slowly learning were for nothing? And how could he drop out when he knew there were still things he was yet to discover?

It just had to end? Here?

There was no more time.

They shared a final hug. Reginald knew what they weren’t meant to say. He said instead, “If this is all some scheme to get rid of me because you’re too nice to dump someone, afraid it hasn’t worked, mate. I love you, Butch, and I’m going to see you again someday.”

“Oh, Reggie...!” Butch chuckled, shaking his head. “It would be an outright tragedy if I never got to see your handsome face again. And I sure do love you my best friend, my partner, my Reginald. But even more than that,” he leant up on tiptoes slightly to say, after a meaningful pause, “I trust you with all my lies.”

When he pulled back, Reginald raised one eyebrow questioningly. “You’ll understand it soon enough.” Reginald frowned slightly. “Oh, come on now; it wouldn’t be us if you didn’t end with a joke and me by saying something strange!” Well that was true enough.

They shared a final kiss.

And then Butch had to go. He had to turn, he had to walk away, he had to repeat words in his head and smile harder just to keep himself from...

Reginald opened his mouth, then bit his lip, remembering what they weren’t meant to say. In a way, maybe it did help. They weren’t acknowledging this as an end, as a parting. Just slightly, that felt better.

Wherever Butch had been throughout his life, he had always left it with a smile. This time was no different as he hopped into the open door on the side of the transport vessel, hearing the engines come to life for him as the ship began to rise, the door closing very slowly behind him. Butch turned to smile goodbye.

But there had never been a time before that he had done it with thick tears streaming down into the corners of his beaming smile though.

The door closed, the ship flew, the other two left, the hum of engines died, and Reginald and Gamma finally stopped waving, the AI’s hand lowering in stilting movements, the human’s arm just dropping like all the life had left him.

Gamma floated a little closer, trying to reach out into their mind with concern. The thoughts in there besides his were like buzzing static. Devoid of meaning. Full of jumbled everything.

Only when Reginald’s tearful gaze finally fell, staring blankly at grey floor, and he reached up into the collar of his shirt to bring them out before his face did the thoughts clear.

Just one.

This was the only place he was going to be seeing Butch for a long time now.

~#~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't claim to be an artist; I just like drawing and I hope the art adds to, rather than takes away from, this chapter. I welcome comments on it as well as the actual story, of course.
> 
> Three chapters left. One next week and then the final two will be going up together for reasons. After that, the next story! I'm currently finishing chapter five of that, if anyone's interested in what I'm up to.
> 
> Next time, the main character development baton hands over from Butch to Reginald for the rest of this story and into the next. Life has to go on without Butch, for Reginald and the others he left behind.


	22. Heavy-Weather Friends

It was time for this argument again.

“Reggie, it’s time for breakfast.”

...

“Reggie, although your lack of activity has reduced your requirements, you still need to eat. You are currently running at a deficit of around 600 kilocalories.”

_“I ate last night, didn’t I?”_ Reginald thought sulkily, not even bothering to talk these days.

“Yes, but that was the only meal you ate yesterday.”

Reginald’s mind thought back, but it was too much effort to sort the days out now. Probably right. Didn’t matter. Didn’t change now. _“I’m not hungry.”_ He was too tired to get angry about the nagging even.

“You **are** hungry but it is not registering properly. Your grief is dulling your synapses with a lack of serotonin and dopamine.” Or something like that. Human bodies were not his strong point. Especially not depressed ones he could not lie to.

Reginald’s shoulders shrugged slightly. Well, at least he moved...

For nearly three days now Gamma had been trying to deal with this. Ever since Butch had left, he had been trying to keep his host going. He had thought it wouldn’t be too hard, even when Reginald had frozen in the hangar, the first of many tears silently rolling down his cheeks while he clutched their dog tags. Gamma had been able to pick him up and get him to walk back to their room.

But then Reginald had become numb. Gamma could feel his pain but it was peculiar. It pervaded his whole body from no discernible source and wasn’t in his muscles or bones. It wasn’t his skin or organs. It was as if his nerves were sending signals for no reason, yet they weren’t actually sending any electrical impulses. His brain was making the entire thing up. Why would the human brain ever make pain up though? Must be another part of its faulty, inferior wiring.

If Delta were still here, maybe he could have asked. Delta knew quite a bit about medicine. Delta also knew about food and lots of recipes; maybe he could find something Reginald would want to eat.

But Delta wasn’t here.

Omega wasn’t either. Only Theta was, but Gamma had been too busy at nights to talk to his smallest brother lately.

Reginald had stopped sleeping properly. He would drift in and out sometimes but it had no schedule and wasn’t often at night. With Theta unable to leave North’s mind, they could only talk at a time when both of their agents were asleep and most nights now Reginald was awake and often wanted some company. He would talk sometimes, for hours occasionally, about things that had nothing to do with Butch. Those were his best moments. If he talked or thought about Butch though, he quickly lapsed back into this numb withdrawal.

He might have slept better if he went back to his old room, the one he was originally assigned to, instead of Butch’s. After all, this bed held too many memories of Butch, still held his scent. But Reginald refused to go; this bed was the place he still felt closest to Butch, even though that was the thing causing him the most pain. It was completely illogical.

Everything was just so illogical now. It wasn’t as if he wished to be Delta – Certainly not – but Gamma did still compute things in binary and logic. Even though he had emotions, he understood where they came from and what would trigger them. As much as Reginald’s depression was understandable, his actions because of it were not. He seemed frankly to be trying to prolong it. Was it that thing they had talked about that pain would be their connection now, that pain would prove they still loved one another? It was stupid. Love did not equal pain. They were two separate words and rarely positively correlated.

But still Reginald let himself think about sad things, practically encouraged sad thoughts. He refused suggestions that might lift his mood like watching _Buffy_ , even though that had always made him happy with Butch. Reginald just sighed, saying he didn’t want to watch Butch’s favourite season of Butch’s favourite show for some reason. Gamma thought that should have been all the more reason to; it must be really good. But Reginald still wouldn’t.

He listened only to sad music which was perhaps fair; for some reason his mind no longer reacted to upbeat music but his neurones would fire at double the strength for melancholic songs, even when they made him cry.

As for the division of his time, Gamma had counted up his host’s activities over the past 70 hours and sleeping accounted for 19%, trying to lose himself in media 17%, crying 10%, talking with Gamma 11% and just moping around thinking 38%. Only 5% of the time would he do something useful like eating or exercising.

He attributed all this lying around in their room to recovering from his injury, even though that was a blatant lie they could both see right through.

And he did stupid things like this now, hugging Butch’s pillow that he had left behind and stroking endless circles around one of the smiley faces on its corner with a finger. Although Gamma had always marvelled at how many branching, tenuous connections the human mind made, the thing that made it so good at humour, now he realised a downside to it; everything reminded Reginald of Butch because Butch was linked into everything in his life. Right now his host was thinking about his own pillow that his head was lying on, how only Butch understood the difference between the English flag, which decorated it, and the British flag.

Ugh. Enough.

“Time to rise and shine, my handsome prince. A dashing fellow like you certainly doesn’t need any more beauty sleep.”

Reginald stilled, then turned over to face the room in a startled hurry. And to face...

“...Butch?!”

Butch stood beside the bed, hands on his hips, beaming, wearing the same clothes he had left in. “Those wonderful chefs of ours make such delightful breakfasts; I hope you’re not going to let one go to waste, Reginald.”

His name again from Butch’s lips...

His heart felt like it was cracking. Everything was such a blur but he didn’t want to think, to work out. Just to lurch to his feet and hold Butch in his-

Reginald’s arms went straight through the other man.

Butch looked down at the hand Reginald was holding in him, passing through the region where his heart should have been. Butch wore a slight frown, but only his one for minor problems. “Oh dear. I didn’t expect that quite so quickly. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to process my tactile properties yet.”

_Process_...

Butch’s own hand had risen to push on Reginald’s, trying to shift it out of his body. But it was only applying a sense of pressure, not actual force, because that would have required being real. “Get out of that face...!” Reginald hissed, his face curling with a dark snarl.

“But, Reggie-”

“I bloody well said GET OUT!” Butch’s form flinched and glitched as Reginald swept his arm through it. He had never seen Reginald this furiously angry, this hurt, before. “And don’t you ever dare show me that again.” He walked straight through the shimmering, broken fragments of Butch, storming towards the door.

“...I thought you understood deceit is not always a bad thing,” Gamma finally said again in his own voice, quiet enough to sound slightly sad. “I thought you were glad to be surrounded by lies, or else life would be sad for humans, you said.”

Reginald paused at the door. His mind was ticking with fury but also acknowledgement he had said those things. The two combined into frustration that this wasn’t what he had meant with a small amount of compassion because it _had_ stopped him feeling sad, just for a moment. “Come on then; breakfast, mate. Since you were so intent on tricking me to go.”

Gamma had to follow, but he sat quietly in their mind after telling Reginald to sort out his mussed hair, clothes and moustache – the human was a complete mess.

But Agent Wyoming was never a mess in company. Eloquent, charming, urbane; in the mess hall he end up behind Ni and No in the breakfast queue and soon had the twins in fits of giggles joking about the time he had been with Butch in a warthog for a mission, had gone to change gear, and had ended up grasping something else entirely when Butch got too close to his seat.

Even if it hurt, this was good now. Gamma could still feel the numbing, aching pain like something trying to drown Reginald from the inside-out but it was forced down by his cavalier facade. Carefully preparing his every sentence to come off as effortless took up a lot of Reginald’s processing power too. There was little left over for thinking negative thoughts.

Gamma was glad again; Reginald wasn’t hurting any longer for just this short while.

When they walked over to the Freelancers’ table, Gamma felt the dropping sensation of dread at the prospect of them asking why it had been so long, but there was a genuine bit of pleasure too, if only for the sake of familiarity and some human company.

“Oh, hey.” North was the first to notice and greet the other agent sliding in beside Wash. The Dakotas were sitting across from them. “We haven’t seen you in a while, Wyoming. We were starting to get a bit worried.”

South might have made a snorting sound, but Wyoming ignored it. “No need to worry about me, old chap.” His own words stabbed pain through him. “Worry about yourself, eh? Heard you two had a fight,” he said, looking at the twins. “Nasty business that. Who won?” Completely inconsiderate as always, at least. “North I’d bet.”

“Hey, Wyoming,” South cut in, practically drawling at him she was so used to this game between them; “go tie someone to a train track.”

“Very witty, my dear.” He had to force himself to take a proper bite of toast, not just nibble at his food like the past two days. “But please, make all the insults you like at my expense.” They hurt less than thinking about Butch.

“Oh yeah, and get nagged by-” South stopped, looking around over her shoulder towards the serving station. She turned back and eyed him with slow curiosity, a glare but almost a concerned one. “Where’s Florida?”

Wyoming sighed, setting down his toast. His throat had grown too tight to eat. “Ah yes, the proverbial sodding elephant in the room...”

“El-lephant?!” Wash asked nervously, spinning round in a panicked hurry both ways to try and find it.

“It’s just an expression, lad; there’s no elephant,” Wyoming calmed him, having forgotten the state Wash was in thanks to the sad state he himself was in.

“Come to think of it,” South went on first, “we haven’t seen either of you in three whole fucking days. How much sex can you have?” She said it, yet she disgusted herself doing so.

“None now,” Wyoming admitted it. “Butch is gone. Sent out on a long mission. Probably not coming back... ever...” He raised his tea mug to his lips, trying to hide its quivering. “Period, as you Americans say...” he forced out a whisper, needing to just joke about this, to not break down and cry like a baby again.

“...Shit,” South said, turning her gaze downwards at her tray.

“I’m so sorry,” North added. Wash had gone strangely still and quiet, just staring at his spoon hovering above his cereal. “How are you holding up?”

Wyoming shrugged. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he tried to joke but it came out a little more irritable than intended. “Gamma keeps nagging me to look after my body and stop thinking about sad things.” Gamma felt the irritation directed at him, but also the undercurrent of relief someone was still around, even if they were annoying. Reginald couldn’t just be easy and accept help gratefully, could he? Stupid human...

Someone else seemed to agree. “You have to look after yourself!” Theta appeared on the tabletop, surprising Wyoming with his enthusiastic cheering. “If you don’t, then you won’t survive to see Florida again! You’re gonna’ see him again, right? You’re gonna’ go find him?”

“Ah... yes... Hopefully,” Wyoming replied, still shaken up by the kindly plea.

“It’s gotta’ hurt,” Theta supposed, his tiny body slumping slightly, “but we’re all here still! Is there anything I can do?” He looked between his own agent and Wyoming keenly.

Neither had an answer, but Gamma could feel how jumbled up his host was inside now. Before Theta’s words, Reginald had allowed his depression to settle and practically solidify; now it was all stirred up again and so much easier to get through to him.

Gamma manifested beside Theta, allaying his brother’s fears with a suggestion; “You could do the thing that you used to do for York, back in recovery.”

“Oh! My juggling act?” Theta jogged excitably at the prospect. “Sure! What would you like me to juggle with?” he asked Wyoming. “I can juggle with practically anything!”

“Er...” Put on the spot, he struggled to think, looking around for suggestions. They were all thinking too, or just carrying on eating in South’s case.

And then there was sniffling.

“Wash?” North asked as all five turned to the hunched over figure gripping his spoon with a shaking fist. “Hey, you all right there, buddy?”

Jerking his head side to side, he snivelled louder. “...York’s go-one...” Wash’s voice cracked. “A-And Caro-lina’s...” he trailed off into a squeak. “A-And M-M...aine...” Wash hugged himself, still swamped by that ugly kitten sweater he never took off these days. He hitched, his attempt to speak again coming out like a squeaking retch. “...and n-now...” He curled up tighter with one particularly loud sniffle and a trembling voice, “...the-ey took Butch to-oo...?!” Wash hissed. “NO! DAMN IT! FUCKING! SHITTY! NO!”

Everything crashed as Wash slammed his arms on the table, upsetting his breakfast everywhere.

South lifted her tray away from the quickly spreading mess. The AIs flinched and flickered away to hide behind their hosts. The other two agents just stared, helpless.

And Wash stared down at his sweater, covered in milk and cereal now. “No...! NO!” He began to plead and howl, a mix of ‘I’m so sorry’s, negatives and wretched sounds that weren’t even words.

North took it upon himself to get up and move around the table to Wash’s side, nodding at South to glare at anyone in the room who dared stare at the scene. They had all seen Washington breakdown into tears by now; nothing to see here.

“Wash... Wash, buddy...?” North tried to console him, crouched slightly and rubbing a hand on Wash’s back. “Come on, David.” Wash jerked and hiccupped at his name, but at least he responded with something other than sobbing. “It’s about time we washed that anyway.”

“No! No!” Wash shook his head too much and too vigorously like a small child. “I can’t! Can’t wash it! Maine made it! He made it for me when Sigma made him couldn’t sleep!” Gamma winced with his host whenever Wash’s actual ability to speak started breaking down. “He left it before he left- It’s all I left- have...” Wash tilted his head with an ugly, confused frown. It was awful to see him aware he wasn’t making sense but having no way to fix it. Wash grew frustrated just like a toddler struggling in that position, bashing his fist on the table again and leaving a scuffed mark of blood on the edge. “...Owww!” he began to wail and cry all over again.

“Whoa, whoa...” North stepped in again, reaching to take Wash’s injured hand. “Calm down. We’ll fix-”

“You’re going to leave too!” Wash snapped and snarled at him, at both of the other Freelancers too.”You’re all going to leave me too because you’re fucking friends!”

It was impossible to get angry at him. Even South just watched in pity as Wash turned wildly between them, watching for the next person to betray him.

“David...” North tried tentatively, not even acknowledged. “David.” He moved closer, slowly slipping his arms around Wash’s shoulders into a hug. “We’ll clean your sweater.” Wash began to break, collapsing back into tears and clinging to North as he began bawling. “Come on now...” North tried to get him to his feet.

Wash was leaning his full weight on the other agent but North took it, getting him up. “...p’omise i-it won’t shrink?” he asked in terror.

“I promise.” North struggled but got him steady. “We’ll wash it and dry it, and then you can put it straight back on.” Wash whined appreciably as the two agents began to walk out slowly towards the exit. “Then we’ll get you more breakfast.”

“...kay...” Wash mumbled, all his fight gone. He was just walking exhaustion now.

“I’ll clean up,” Wyoming said as they passed behind him.

North glanced back and nodded, just concentrating on getting Wash out and glaring at anyone who looked.

The remaining two agents finished their own breakfasts, trying to ignore the spilt food and all the murmured whispers.

“Wash snapped again.”

“Poor kid.”

“They ought to send him home.”

“Yeah, it’s just getting old now.”

“Old and annoying.”

South slammed her mug down too hard, turning around to face the room. “If I hear another _fucking_ word about Wash,” she yelled, terrifying everyone into utter silence, “I’ll beat every one of your ungrateful asses myself! OKAY?!”

There wasn’t even another syllable.

A bit of talk picked up on other tables about Grifball, about families back home and what people were doing today.

The Freelancer table was silent, aside from Gamma pretending to splash around in Wash’s spilt milk. He was on edge, uncomfortable about the guilt his host felt for technically having started that. But no, the AI knew it was his own fault really; he had created Epsilon. He always let his hatred for the Alpha cloud the fact he was creating more fragments, more broken minds. He just hadn’t thought the Project would be stupid enough to stick one in someone like that...

So he reverted to being the joker, playful and uncaring as he leapt from one piece of floating cereal to another, seeing if he could jump between them all eventually. Gamma knew South was glaring, that Reginald didn’t approve but was too tired to care. But Gamma was just doing what he had to. He grown tired of this too.

South left when she was finished eating.

Wyoming soon finished as well, standing to go find something to clean with.

But South came back, throwing a dishrag at him whilst she took a dustpan and brush. She was still scowling, but she was helping.

“...Glad I didn’t get that one after all,” South muttered after a few moments cleaning together.

“Yes. Poor lad...”

Another moment of silence, then she spoke again. “Rough break.” This time she was looking at Wyoming. “I was kind of starting to like him.”

“And who would that be? Your brother?” Wyoming teased back.

“Fuck no. Utter bastard,” South smirked. “I meant Florida. He wasn’t... all bad.”

Wyoming chuckled; the highest praise she could give.

“You two are probably the greatest success this project has had,” South continued surprisingly, “given you’re the only thing that wasn’t royally fucked up in some way. Shame they trashed that.”

“Yes... Certainly is...”

* * *

Another couple of days managed to pass.

Reginald got a little better at functioning again with each one. Gamma kept hearing Theta’s words ringing in their head and he made sure to thank his little brother fully when his host finally slept again properly that night. He would have done it at the breakfast table then and there but Deceit had an image to keep up, after all. One no amount of gratitude or admiration for his little brother could be allowed to tarnish.

Being the only two AI left here, they were all the support each had now. Delta’s sensible suggestions were gone, and so was Omega’s strength to protect them. Gamma rather liked being the only brother Theta had around anymore.

Reginald had to phone home to his own family before long, deciding this needed to be told and hoping uncertainly they might be able to say something that could help. A hug really would have been nice right now.

When he broke the news, Linch steeled his initially appalled expression and muttered that no one should ever be deprived of someone they love that strongly. His father just cried.

They had news for him; he was getting published! Reginald said he’d celebrate later, when he could feel again.

Later that afternoon, on the fifth day after Butch had left, there was a visitor to their door.

“Oh. Agent Wyoming.” It was that pilot boy, Ricky. That bright crimson hair and fashion sense like a 10-year-old; no wonder Butch had adopted him like a little brother. Reginald’s mind recoiled when he knew what this conversation was going to be about. “Where’s...? Where’s Butch?” The young man looked weary but excited somehow.

Reginald stared sombrely at him, preparing the words for this and thinking about how much more confident the junior pilot was now than when they had first met, and it was entirely Butch’s doing. His mark was everywhere here...

“We were getting worried,” Ricky continued obliviously. “We’ve barely seen him lately and we know he’s been discouraged since the ship crashed down so we-”

“He’s gone.” No more. Not the people that were virtually Butch’s family. He couldn’t take having to do this.

“...Gone?” Ricky repeated innocently.

“On a mission. Indefinitely.”

The boy looked too confused to be sad, just incapable of comprehending it. After a moment staring at Wyoming’s pained, sombre expression, Ricky looked down to the piece of paper he had brought in his hands, his spirits crumbling. “...Oh.”

“I’m sorry...”

Ricky shook his head, knowing Wyoming needed to keep the compassion for himself more. “...He’s not coming back?”

“Not while this project is still a thing, I imagine.”

At the mention of that, Ricky clenched the sheet a little tighter. He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t trembling; Reginald realised he must have put the poor thing into shock.

“What do have there?” Wyoming asked gently, knowing you had to keep moving on. “Was that for him?”

Ricky’s head bobbed unenthusiastically as he continued to stare down. “...Butch said once... He said a lot of good things...” he said in pleasant, aching nostalgia. “But he said once that he wanted to make something like a yearbook for Project Freelancer, a record of everyone who was a part of it. We knew he was just kind of joking... But he wasn’t too. We thought, now it’s going to be over soon, probably... We made a page for it.” Ricky held the sheet, actually two sellotaped together and folded, out to Wyoming. “We thought if we got him started, he’d have something to do again and he’d be cheered up.” The boy’s forlorn eyes were killing him. “We... We wanted to see him smile again.”

Wyoming bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to cry at how damn much Butch made people care. He wasn’t going to cry. Not unless the boy started first, at least. “...Thank you. Sure I can...?”

Ricky nodded, letting Wyoming take the paper.

He opened it carefully, seeing 13 small profiles of all the ducklings on one half, and on the other... His finger traced lovingly over Butch, in the centre of a photo of them all so happily united around him. Every single one of them had written a tribute to him as well around it.

Dear Lord. It was too much. He was going to cry.

“This...” Wyoming forced his voice to stay steady. “This would have m-meant... so much to him-m...” He bit his lip, holding back the tearful heat building behind his eyes.

Probably facing the same struggle, Ricky was staring at the floor once more. “...How are you holding up?”

Great. Now he had the damn ducklings worried about him too; he was never going to escape being cared about. “Oh, well enough,” Wyoming answered more easily, having to lean his weight against one side of the door frame to hold himself up.

Ricky smiled a bit more. “Well... You shouldn’t stay here; you should get out,” Wyoming raised an eyebrow. “Of your room, I mean.”

Wyoming made a silent, “Ah,” in appreciation of his true meaning. He glanced to FILSS’ quiet panel inside the door, still wondering. “I think you’re right, lad. I will.” Ricky nodded encouragingly. “And... it might not be my place to say it...” Was he doing the right thing for Butch, what he would have wanted? “but I think he would have passed the leadership onto you in his place. Take care of your dratted gaggle for him...” Butch’s family...

Ricky went wide-eyed. His cheeks tried to blush with the honour but any attempt was always completely overshadowed by his hair. Rubbing awkwardly at the side of his face, the duckling then resolved himself, standing proud and giving their salute.

Wyoming rolled his eyes slightly, but he had always thought it was telling that Butch had inspired a group that saluted with a closed fist to their heart, not an open hand to their head.

And really, Reginald thought as he retreated back into his room, studying the sheet more closely; ducklings. Couldn’t Butch had picked wolf cubs, or even kittens? At least they had claws. What did ducklings have going for them? Everyone thinking they were ugly and useless because no one saw their true potential.

Damn it. The things they had written about Butch and all he had done had him crying again. And Reginald knew he still had to keep reading them because he was going to learn these by heart.

He was going to because, when he saw Butch again, he was going to tell him every single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I said, next week I'm posting the final two chapters together. They're both a bit short alone and I'm just too excited about sharing the second story following this. I'm excited for so much of it but most of that excitement boils down to Gamma. Just everything Gamma next story. And a little bit of Doc.
> 
> Anyway, next time we have Reginald's final two days at Project Freelancer and everyone he has to say goodbye to. And I somehow manage to pull a reasonably positive ending out of this story.


	23. Teaming Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-update this time! Don't forget to read both and maybe leave a comment at the end. It doesn't have to be much. I'd just like to know who's reading and will be continuing into the sequel.

On the sixth day after Butch had left, Reginald listened to advice. He got out of his room, even if it was only to walk around the ship. He had no particular destination in mind, but his mind was a discussion of plans and walking around various places helped give one ideas.

In one of the corridors – He had lost track of which one but it hardly mattered anymore after over three years on this ship – he paused, staring out of the window at the icy tundra. This planet had days that were about 40 hours in length, then 20 hour nights. Right now it was a few hours off a sunset, despite the MOI clock reading 9:25am, and the snow was glowing a peachy colour.

Was it day or night where Butch was now? Was he sleeping?

What was he doing, wherever he was? Fighting? Training? Was he with new people, new friends, new...?

No. Butch wouldn’t forget about him. Butch clung to his past like anything and you could tell he still cared for all the people he had known and left behind in his life so far. There was no way he was just going to move on and forget about them.

Reginald knew Butch still had things to open up about. Even after nearly three and a half years together he still hadn’t gotten right down into Butch’s core.

Since getting Gamma he had become much more sensitive to other people deceiving him and much better at reading lies or hidden meanings. He hadn’t sensed anything of the sort during their final day together. But then again, Gamma hadn’t been in his head for most of that.

 _“I do not think Butch was lying to you,”_ Gamma responded to the thoughts. _“I was listening to your conversation throughout and I believe he intends to stay faithful to you, Reggie, until you meet again. He was concealing things from you, but I do not believe they were malicious intentions.”_

 _“Concealing?”_ Reginald frowned at the window’s glass before glancing away from his own reflection in it. _“What do you think then?”_

_“I believe he was concealing feelings from you. There were things he was not saying because they would have been too painful for at least one of you.”_

_“Ah. Understandable. I was doing the same.”_

Gamma was quiet for a moment, but he was thinking still, gathering words. Reginald waited for him, his mind still wanting to drift to wherever Butch might be. _“...Is that deception?”_

 _“Not telling the whole truth?”_ Reginald’s smile quirked slightly, thinking how awful he was for that. _“Perhaps, mate. It’s one of the things I know you do a lot.”_

Gamma followed those words to the examples his host was thinking about. _“I encrypt my thoughts to give us both space to think more clearly.”_

 _“You could be lying to me about that,”_ Reginald pointed out.

Gamma’s presence in his mind grew slightly irritable. _“I said that I would not lie to you, Reggie, that I could not.”_

_“Ah, but you can hide things from me.”_

And they were back to the start. _“Then you consider Butch was lying to you as well?”_

 _“Hm.”_ Reginald frowned slightly. _“I think you’ve got me there. Maybe he was.”_ At least his AI seemed happier again. Hadn’t they got past that stage of competing for his approval? _“But he did say that whole, ‘I trust you with all my lies’ bit. Maybe that’s what he meant by it. Six days and I still don’t have a bloody clue...”_

 _“I do not know what he meant either – He has a habit of trying too hard to be poetic and dramatic in important moments,”_ Gamma judged, _“but the phrase does resonate with how I feel about you.”_

_“Ah yes. You like to be clever with the words you say to me as well.”_

Gamma ought to be glad Reginald was teasing again, but he wasn’t. _“I also have to trust you with all the lies that I tell. It is not an easy thing for people like Butch and I, even if we gladly do it with you.”_

 _People like Butch and him..._ That was an interesting phrase.

 _“And you are not very smart if you cannot work out where the answer is,”_ Gamma added.

 _“What? Where?!”_ Gamma taunted him with the encrypted version. “Little bugger...”

“Are you speaking to me, Agent Wyoming?”

Wyoming startled slightly and turned at the terse, Southern voice to find the Director and Counsellor had come up behind him during the internal conversation. “Ah. No.” Well, this was pleasantly awkward. “Gamma; the little bugger was teasing me about something.”

The Counsellor stepped forward to speak, “Are you having problems with your AI?”

“No, no,” Wyoming quickly declined. “Just a bit of friendly banter, you know.” He _was_ having problems actually; Gamma had been increasingly withdrawn and reluctant to manifest over the past couple of days, and Reginald was pretty sure it wasn’t just second-hand depression from Butch leaving.

“Good,” the Director said, giving him an evaluating stare. “What are your plans henceforth, Agent? Will you be staying with us here at Project Freelancer?”

“Wasn’t aware I had any other options,” Wyoming replied, glancing out at the snowy wasteland and wondering how well his armour would blend in. “What’s on the cards for us next then, eh? All four of us left.” One definitely too mentally traumatised for any work and the other three still recovering from injuries.

“It’s nice to see you see have the willpower to sass me at every opportunity you get,” the Director said in a tone that definitely told him to shut up. “Project Freelancer will survive. Even with half our agents lost, we will carry on.”

“Carry on with what precisely? Training a team for the first Human-Covenant Winter Olympics, perhaps?” Wyoming suggested, gesturing at the landscape out the window.

“Amusing idea, Agent. Had you a particular sport in mind? Figure skating maybe?” he joked, but the Director’s smile was forced and withering. And Wyoming didn’t think his joke was even that funny. “Our work is not yet complete. There are still matters we must attend to.”

“I thought our work was helping win the damn war; what’s left?” He was going to joke about preparing the victory party but now seemed like a good time not to piss his boss off even further.

“That was our original purpose, yes.”

“Well, what’s our new one?” This was just getting obtuse.

The Director frowned at him. “You ask a lot of questions, Agent Wyoming.”

“Then I’d like a lot of answers, if you don’t mind,” he responded with a sharp edge.

“It is not your place to ask questions,” the Director replied even more tersely; “it is your place to follow orders, may I remind you.”

Wyoming balled up his fists and gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t hold it in. “It’s not my bloody place to ask where the hell you sent Butch, and why you thought it was all right to get rid of the one decent, sodding agent this project had left?!”

They looked at his outburst with blank, slightly frustrated faces. “Your personal feelings are **not** a relevant factor in decision-making around here, Agent Wyoming,” the Director replied. “This is a military project, not a _dating service_.”

Despite his fierce expression, Wyoming bit his tongue rather than blurt out what was in his mind now. The Project was probably still overseeing wherever Butch was stationed after all, and he couldn’t risk anything befalling Butch because of his actions.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

Gamma manifested by Wyoming’s shoulder, and everyone was glad for the interruption. “Yes? Can I help you with something, Gamma?” the Director asked, seeing the AI was looking at him.

“Yes.” The Director had given them more time, had let them see each other off, but he had still done this to them in spite of everything he had experienced himself. “For some reason, Butch’s departure, when we are not likely to see him again, makes me think of the name ‘Allison’ and-”

“Log off!” the Director commanded instantly.

“But Allison-”

“I am ordering you to **log off now** , Gamma!” he snarled, but it was slightly shakily done.

Gamma lingered on for just a moment more, making a very deliberate point of saying, “Goodbye.”

Now the Director’s anger turned on Gamma’s host. Wyoming would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad Gamma had brought that up and got some revenge, but at the same time he could imagine the pain of someone someday doing the same to him.

“You are _dismissed_ , Agent Wyoming,” he was commanded sharply. “I do not want to see you again until I have an order you, and your AI, are willing to follow.”

“Yes, sir,” he dutifully agreed, walking off in the Counsellor’s direction so he could pause and say, “And do something about Agent Washington. North tells me you haven’t done a thing to help the poor lad.”

“Agent Washington has turned down all our offers of help so far, of which we have made many,” the Counsellor calmly replied. Wyoming still got the feeling he might have struck a hidden nerve though.

“Yes... For some reason that doesn’t bloody surprise me...”

* * *

After lunch, Reginald lay around on his bed thinking. But for once lately, it wasn’t about Butch. He had expected Gamma to be glad about that but the AI was still sulking and quiet. It would offer ideas into his planning, just nothing emotional.

Gamma had always encrypted things but before it had never really bothered Reginald. Only now did he wonder just what Gamma still wouldn’t trust him to know. And Gamma must have known he was wondering, yet made no comment on it. His AI couldn’t directly lie to him inside his own head, but there was lying and there was deceiving. That was the distinction he had been looking for earlier, perhaps.

All three of them were guilty of being deceptive, but only lately had Gamma’s habit become frustrating for some reason.

Once they had their plans laid out and written down, there was somewhere else Reginald wanted to be this afternoon. A simple question to FILSS confirmed where he needed to go, even if he had to wait outside a little while for entry.

Eventually he was allowed into Wash’s room, even if the agent then glared at him from where he was huddled up defensively on the bed. “What do you want?” Wash sounded too tired to be genuinely suspicious.

“Ah...” Wyoming glanced around briefly, seeing a pretty standard room. He tried not to let his eyes linger too long on the personal items around the room, just registering it was in a reasonable state, probably thanks to North. “Just came by to see how you were doing, and to give you this.” He held out the small offering he had brought.

Wash stared, then perked up more innocently when he registered the colour. “Is that...?”

“Butch kept a list of everyone’s favourites,” Wyoming explained, walking over slowly and offering out the honeycomb chocolate bar. “Just wanted to apologise if my words upset you a bit yesterday.” Wash hadn’t been in the mess hall since.

His head slightly lowered, Wash was glaring out from beneath his eyelids but he seemed to trust and reached out, snatching at the chocolate bar even though it took him a few attempts to properly grasp it. He then retreated, examining it all over intently before seeming satisfied.

Wyoming watched him tear into it desperately for comfort, just mouthing it like a small child with a thumb in its mouth. “Good?”

Wash mm-ed from his throat.

“Mind if I stay a while? Just to see you’re all right.”

Although Wash hated the babying, he had come to accept it lately and merely gestured one socken foot at a chair. Wyoming removed the T-shirt and rubber duck left on it, folding up the shirt for good measure, before taking a seat near the bed at what was hopefully a comfortable distance for Wash. “Feeling any better, my boy?”

Wash took a bite. “Thun what?” he mumbled whilst chewing.

“Than...” When Wash had first woken up he had been on heavy painkillers and highly disoriented so hadn’t seemed that bad. The full damage had then come out after a day; three of his best friends leaving him all in one big disaster couldn’t have helped. Now no one could tell if he was getting better or worse with each passing day. “Than yesterday? How about that to start?”

“Don’t know. Can’t remember...” At least he swallowed this time. “It means I’m further from everyone again...”

“Further? ...You mean everyone that’s left?”

Wash nodded slowly, nibbling on his chocolate as if he didn’t want it to go either. “When he left- When you said he left- He’s one person but it’s worse than three all-” Tiredly, Wash shook his head until he found the words he wanted. “Even when York, Maine and...” He didn’t need to say her name; Wyoming knew, “left, I still felt like maybe we could go on, that we could still be a team and they might come back. But when you told me Butch left I... somehow I knew it was all over then.”

“Yes...” Wyoming agreed. “That man could make something feel like a team even if he was the only member in it...”

“Yeah, he could!” Wash laughed harder than was strictly necessary. Wyoming just tried to tolerate the excessive mood swings as the laughs turned into a couple of choked sobs. “...We-e didn’t even sa-ave the princess...”

“Hm?” The non-sequiters were another thing.

“We were playing _Final Fantasy 97_ together, a-and the princess disappeared to find something, and Butch said – She had red hair – So Butch s-said when we found he-er...” he hiccupped slightly, “Carolina would wa-ake up... and now she’s ne-ever going to wake...”

“They still haven’t found her body. We don’t know yet,” Wyoming tried to reassure him, even though it was so uncomfortable to do so. God, how long ago had that even been? Less than a month and there were still nine of them together, still playing video games in the rec room like none of this was going to happen...

Wash had curled up mostly, still slowly chewing on his chocolate bar. His mind was always too packed with things these days, North explained to people, so Wyoming was waiting on him to speak. It could also be dangerous picking subjects with Wash in case they triggered something off. “...You’ve got Gamma with you?” Wash finally asked with a very suspicious glare.

“Yes?”

“How did he know?” Wash had grown extremely cold and hostile, positively bristling with constrained anger even though there were still drying tears on his face and chocolate crumbs around his mouth.

“Know what?” His AI wasn’t explaining or volunteering to come out.

“He knew what Epsilon was like!” Wash then exploded at him. “He knew this was going to happen to me!”

Wyoming pulled back, completely lost now.

Wash grew quickly terrified as well, then pleading, “Don’t go! Please don’t go!” as he crawled towards the one bit of company he currently had. “I-I didn’t mean to-!”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Wyoming tried to calm himself as well as the other agent whilst struggling to get the story out of Gamma. “I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Confused, then self-doubting, Wash sat back and struggled to go through his mind. “Gamma... came to me, the night before Epsilon. He warned me something bad was going to happen... He must have known...”

“I did not know what was going to happen to you,” Gamma finally bwinped into existence to speak, sharing the memories with his host as well. “I only knew that Epsilon was an unknown and therefore potentially dangerous.”

Wash seemed sullenly accepting of that, eventually.

“Doesn’t seem to me like either of you could have done anything about it anyway,” Wyoming declared, having examined the memories now. He was surprised at Gamma’s compassion, but not at how the AI was treated for it. “Except maybe pull a sickie for a couple of days while they did more tests.”

“You mean I was fated to end up like this?” Wash glowered over his knees. “I deserved this?”

“What? No! Of course not!” He sighed and frowned, wondering if he was making a hash of this or the boy was just impossible for anyone.

“But I... I...” The violent mood swings were too much; now Wash looked near tears again. “I’m sorry... I’m just making a fuss out of nothing...” He sniffled and rubbed at his face, putting his chocolate bar to his lips again. “I bet I got a normal AI and I’m just so useless that it... that I messed it up somehow... again...”

“I really don’t think you got a normal one!” Wyoming actually laughed at the notion. He felt guilty when Wash looked hurt though.

“Many of the fragments are considered unfit,” Gamma explained more calmly. “You were given an unfit one before it was properly tested to identify that, Agent Washington. That is all.”

Wash seemed to calm at those words, chewing thoughtfully again. “...Did Gamma come with any memories?” he eventually asked quietly.

“Memories? Some,” the other agent replied. “He was kicking around for nine months before I got him, after all.”

“So they were his memories?” Wash investigated. “What were they like?”

Wyoming shrugged, trying to recall. It was hard with such bland memories though. “Things he did and saw. Watching us through the cameras. Working on my armour enhancement. Tedious things.”

“No one you didn’t know? Places you hadn’t been?”

“Again, no. Just stuff from around the ship.”

Wash frowned, confused. He resorted to eating, seeming to find a simple comfort in that.

But Gamma grew slowly more disquieted, then flared when it all came at once. “Oh God. You got Memory.” _The Alpha’s memories... The Alpha’s memories..._

It seemed to mean a lot to the AI and his host grew slightly panicked from it too. Wyoming began to grasp just what Wash had in his head then, how awful it was.

The only one that didn’t was the unfortunate young man himself. “Memory? I don’t- I got someone else’s memories then?” He seemed strangely accepting of it. “Oh. No wonder I’m struggling to remember my own...”

“Epsilon would have improved your capability to remember, had it remained,” Gamma said, wanting to be helpful now. “However, forcible ejection of an AI, as the surgeons had to do to you, severely damages a host’s capabilities in the same area.”

“Will- Will it come back?”

“I would hope so, with time. However, it will be slow.”

Wash seemed a little better now. He had finished his chocolate and was playing with the wrapper, seeing how many long tears he could make in the thin plastic without separating any bits off.

Since the one leading the conversation had grown quiet, Wyoming took the chance to look around while Gamma disappeared. Wash’s room had its clutter pushed into the corners and under the desk. There were funny or cute pictures of cats and action shots of people skateboarding on the walls and comic books lying around half-read in a few places, although none had strayed far from the neat, shelved collection.

On the desk though, he noticed something different. Most of the surface was clear, drawing attention to the little crew assembled on there nicely.

Wyoming went over to investigate, chuckling at what he found. “Did you make these?” He wanted to touch but felt that might not be appreciated right now.

“Oh. No.” Wash sounded disappointed. “North’s been making them for me, one each day, so they’re complete now.”

Wyoming hummed over the ten origami cats in a familiar spectrum of colours. They even had some special features, like an orange head for Maine’s and little knotted strings wrapped around Florida’s for his ammo belts. His own was disappointingly plain, however.

For now.

Eventually Wash noticed. “What are you doing?!” he panicked to see them being tampered with.

“Just fixing mine,” Wyoming declared proudly, presenting his own on his palm with a newly penned on moustache. He grinned hopefully.

Wash stared like he’d committed a sin. “...They’re meant to be in armour.”

“...Oh.” Damn it. He really was no good at this cheering up thing.

Sighing, Wash set down his wrapper-fiddling to come take the spoiled cat to his desk where he sat, opening drawers and getting out markers. A minute later, “There,” Wash showed it again with its whole cat face drawn on and light blue eyes. The boy was good at drawing, or drawing cat features at least. “It’s not my fault if he gets shot in the head and dies because you took his helmet off.” Though he seemed sulky, he didn’t seem angry.

“Understood. On my own head be it,” Wyoming quipped before adding, “He ought to have black ears then,” pointing to his hair.

Wash played along with a disgruntled smile, shading them in. He must have been having fun with this because he put the Wyoming-cat down mounting the Florida one. “There. _Now_ he’s realistic.”

They should have laughed, but they couldn’t. Not without Butch here making some camp, far too personal comment.

“...You know, he was an even better rival once we were friends too,” Wash finally said. “He was always helping push me, particularly at being more adaptable and aware of things.” He poked at Florida-cat’s pale blue face. “I was always jealous of him for being better at the whole ‘toughened orphan’ thing even though he’s a year younger too...”

“Did you have a rough time as an orphan?”

“It wasn’t too bad... I think,” Wash said doubtfully, frowning as he tried to remember. “Couple of all right foster homes. They let me go to college before the army because I was smart.”

“Well, Butch had it rougher. Don’t think it was worth what he got out of it,” Wyoming judged, wondering what he still hadn’t been told. Would there be a day when he finally got to hear it?

Wash continued poking morosely. “Stuff like the circus sounds fun...”

It had looked fun in the photos. All juggling, cotton candy and playing with tigers. “Perhaps. But the stories he doesn’t tell are what toughened him up.” Although, the whole playing with tigers bit was probably pretty toughening as well...

“...Is that how you get tough? Going through hard stuff?” Wash moped. “Then maybe after this I’ll finally be tough like the rest of you.”

“Oh, come on now!” Wyoming teased. “We all worked our arses off to give you the rookie’s luxury of being yourself rather than having to act tough!”

“Thanks...” Wash pouted and kicked and went on to gripe, “North keeps telling me I don’t need to be tough because he’s here to look after me. That I should just take it easy and enjoy things... But I want to be tough! I’m tired of being the useless, pitiful rookie everyone needs to baby!”

Rubbing at his forehead, Wyoming sighed and perched himself on the edge of the desk. He felt like he should have been sitting backwards in a chair for this. “You want to know why we all seem so tough, lad? It’s because we act tough, not because we are.” Except maybe Texas, but non-humans didn’t count.

“Well fine; how do I act tough then, if that works?” Wash was pillowing his chin in his folded arms, glaring up like a sullen teenager.

“Don’t be yourself. Pick an archetype everyone will nag you about if you let it slip; constantly on-the-rag woman, everyone’s older brother, tall, strong and silent type, scout leader, cavalier jokester...” Wyoming began to list, from no particular sources of inspiration. “Pick one and get practising.”

“That makes you tough?” the student asked with mild amusement.

“It makes you seem tough to rookies,” the teacher responded fondly, ruffling Wash’s hair. It wasn’t like it could get any messier than he kept it these days after all. “I look forward to seeing what act you’ve picked the next time we meet, my boy.”

Wash jerked and startled, staring up with wide and terrified eyes. “You’re leaving?!” he guessed.

Nail right on the head, as the saying went. The boy certainly wasn’t lacking marbles, even if they weren’t all screwed in right. “Course not. Whyever would you think that?” Although even Wyoming would admit his words just then had said otherwise.

Deeply hurt, Wash slumped again sadly. “You need to stay and be the new Florida...”

Wyoming shook his head. “Sorry, lad. Simply not possible.” He didn’t like to see Wash so disheartened though. “After all, I can’t even say ‘shucks’ without people- There you go!” Wash was already laughing at him.

He watched Wash laugh, then wipe the few tears from his eyes, and knew if Wash got past this he’d be as tough as any of them. He just needed some words to get him through until that was obvious enough for even him to see it.

“Wash, my boy,” Oh God, he sounded like a father already. And putting his hand on Wash’s shoulder wasn’t helping the situation, “’You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.’”

Wash’s gaze scrutinised him. “That sounds like a quote. What’s it from?”

“Ah, ah!” Wyoming wagged a finger. “Now I’m not telling you that,” It was too embarrassing, “so you’ll just have to remember it and keep repeating it to yourself until you find out.” The plan was obvious, hopefully not patronising. Wyoming couldn’t help himself softening when he looked upon Wash these days though. “You’re a good soldier, David; never forget that either.”

Forlornly, Wash nodded.

Of course words like this weren’t helping. “All right. Sorry about all the homework. Why don’t we chat about something else then?”

“...I’d like that.”

Wyoming stayed for a while then, but couldn’t stay overall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know where Reginald's quote comes from then you are as adorable and un-grown-up as he is.


	24. So Long and Thanks For All the Freelancing

On the seventh day after Butch had left, Reginald finally read the letter he had been left.

> _‘Dear Reginald,_
> 
> _You are a pain in my ass._
> 
> _That’s literally, mind. I’m more than a little bit sore right now, you see, and I’d gratefully be sore for the rest of my life if it meant another silly way I could keep even one more piece of you._
> 
> _I could take a piece of you, actually. I mean that quite literally as well. The only thing stopping me is the fact I just can’t decide which wonderful bit to take!_
> 
> _I don’t have a single memory of you that isn’t wonderful to me. Nope, not a single one I wouldn’t want to place inside a nice silver frame and then put on my mantelpiece where I could walk by everyday and pick one or two up and say, “Oh! Do you remember that time we were making love and you warned me, “Ah, Butch! I’m going to come!” and I replied, “Hi, Going To Come; I’m dad,” and you laughed so hard that you-” Well, you know what happened._
> 
> _I suppose we’d need to have the mantelpiece together for me to be able to say those happy things though. I’d like to have a mantelpiece together someday, Reginald, and a house to put it in, and a family to make that house a home. I want a home with you more than all the chocolate in England – And you know how much I adore English sweeties._
> 
> _But I can’t dream of it. I was always so gosh-darned careful to deny myself any dreams because I knew I was an orphan, that I was always going to have a sad life no matter how much I fought my destiny. But I let myself have a dream here because I thought the tides had changed with you. I began to believe that a marvellous, dashing and lovely man like you couldn’t possibly be a part of the sad and lonely life I’d resigned myself to. I thought you had saved me from my inextricably doomed self that couldn’t love anyone or anywhere or ever dream. But it found a way to use you against me too._
> 
> _There’s not a single atom of it I blame you for though, I want you to know. Don’t you dare think this is in any way your fault. This is my luck and my fate and I’m just so dreadfully sorry you had to get pulled into it. You deserve better than my life can ever give you._
> 
> _Now, I was going to bring this up with you in person but I went the colour of a neon yellow highlighter and admitted I admire your warm heart instead when it came down to it. That funny old discussion was a cousin to the one I wanted to have, and I’m glad you got to hear those things; they’re going to be more than slightly important now._
> 
> _Reginald, I’m going to close off my heart again without you, push it down even deeper beneath my act. It won’t stop the pain, and I don’t ever want it to, but as a demisexual it should stop me feeling for anyone besides you. I’ll always be pledged only to you._
> 
> _I won’t ever betray your trust in me, whatever it is. This might be quite the promise to make, and I wouldn’t blame you for doubting if I’ll keep it. But I’d like to go off on one – You know how I like to go off on one – to tell you some pretty heavy things here. I hope you have your weight-lifting gear on, not that you really need it my hunky stallion._
> 
> _You can trust my words, Reginald, because I can’t deceive you now. Over these three years and four months and two weeks and three days – Have you been counting the exact number too? – you’ve seen practically every dark truth and real side I have. You’ve seen me angry, you’ve heard me swear and you’ve even suffered through my awful distrust of you._
> 
> _I’d say you really know the real me now, because you know all my lies. You know how much of me is an act, all the terrible things I’ve done, the raw darkness I still can’t let go of inside._
> 
> _And I trust you with all my lies, Reginald. You could destroy me with them, if you wanted; they’re yours to do with as you please._
> 
> _It wouldn’t be the first time..._
> 
> _Yes, I know we said we wouldn’t share our most painful stories until the next time we meet, but I’ll need to tell you just a little bit here for you to understand. You see, the gist was that I had a friend long ago at the orphanage, when I was 6 or so, that I told all my lies, secrets and hidden things to at the time. He ended up betraying me for no reason other than to have something to laugh at, my life to destroy. It was why I knew I had to leave in the end._
> 
> _I’ve always thought therefore that- No, actually. I really am going on too much here. You’ll have to forgive me._
> 
> _Especially if you can’t understand quite what this means to me. I’ve heard some quite clever sausages say that our root drive as humans is fear, and I could quite certainly trace back how everything I now am has come from a fear of that ever happening to me again. But if you really do struggle – Even though I expect your fantastically sharp brain and warm heart won’t – just ask our little blueberry what it means that he can’t lie to you. It’s as special as that._
> 
> _Butch Flowers is nothing but a big bundle of things I’ve made up and chosen to be, but when I’m with you I feel real, Reginald. I’ve actually started to see there is a real me behind this very developed act. Isn’t that a weird, little thing?_
> 
> _Oh dear. If you wanted another rambling letter of mine then I’m afraid you’ve got one. I know that I say a lot of peculiar things at the moments I need to least, that whenever I’m trying to be serious and heartfelt it just comes out as corny and silly in some way. I do wish that didn’t happen, but we can’t all be the eloquent, highly composed and may I add good-looking author that you are, Reginald – The good-looking is important for the author’s photo on the back inside flap. And don’t you pull that face, Reggie, the one I know you’re pulling right now. You’d be doing all your readers a great disservice not putting a picture of your handsome, roguish self inside your books._
> 
> _But anyway, I am sorry. I should be trying to write you a nice, proper letter about everything we’ve been through together over these three and a bit years instead of this._
> 
> _I just really don’t know where to begin. From the time we first talked I thought, “There’s a man it’d sure be swell to be friends with,” but I never thought you’d be the one. The one to find a way back into me after I’d tried so hard to keep everyone out._
> 
> _You know, I was scared of being in love all that time ago, right about when I wrote my first letter to you. It’s such a silly little fear – Who should be afraid of love, after all? – but it meant too much to me. That’s why I took the first exit I saw to try and admit it wasn’t. Oh gosh, I should have confessed this much earlier: I WAS going to run away that night and that WAS a goodbye letter originally. But, like that butter, would you believe it? I managed to convince myself into giving someone a go again for the first time whilst I was writing that._
> 
> _I couldn’t find the right face to tell you back then because there were so many other things I had to be afraid of as well, the whole touching me and sexual things that you were so good about. It would have been too much at once and those things were easier to explain and harder to hide. Trying to explain these things would have led back to a lot of things I’m not even sure I’m ready to go into now._
> 
> _Besides, you seemed so happy and set on little, old me! There’s a certain limit to how much one should ruin someone else’s fun for their tiny problems._
> 
> _Now, I hope you’ll excuse me for even thinking about this but I wonder if you’ll always be set on little, old me? Are you going to move on one day if we can’t find our way back together? I can’t say that I’d be happy, but I sure as sharpies don’t want you to be sad for the rest of your life either, Reginald._
> 
> _If we do never meet again, I suppose I wouldn’t know though. You could get up to anything you liked whilst my back is forever turned, you naughty devil! But I know there won’t ever be someone else for me but you, my sweet prince. You showed me all my weaknesses and I won’t be letting anyone else in through them again, no sirree!_
> 
> _Not if things are always going to go this awful way for me..._
> 
> _For just a short time with you, I had a different life, Reginald. I was happy here, and free from the terrible things you always tell me I’m too accustomed to. And I wouldn’t give that time back for anything now._
> 
> _Everywhere that I’ve been happy has meant pain when I left. Everywhere I was sad gave me joy to leave. I don’t think I’ve ever been through as much pain as I’ll experience leaving here._
> 
> _And leaving you._
> 
> _I thought my heart was already filled up with all the pain it could take after the first seven years of my life, and that’s why insults and teasing nowadays have that wonderful habit of just bouncing straight off me._
> 
> _But it looks like my heart reserved a VIP area too, one that leaving Project Freelancer has the ticket for._
> 
> _I’ve had so many delightful times here that I just can’t count them all. I didn’t always care for all our fellow agents and their attitudes but I did always care for them- Oh shucks. Darn it, you know what I mean, Reggie; you’re so dashingly smart._
> 
> _And all my darling ducklings are the closest thing to family I’ve ever had. I feel just awful for letting them down at the end and not even being able to give them a proper goodbye._
> 
> _Take care of them for me, Reginald, please. I can’t put into words how dear they are to me._
> 
> _And if I can’t put into words how dear they are to me, then I certainly can’t even attempt it for you!_
> 
> _I’m going to miss you so much every single day. I’m going to miss you when I wake up with no big spoon tucked behind me in my lonely cutlery drawer. I’m going to miss you whenever I eat a meal and no longer have any reason to think about what number it would be on your moustache scale. I’m going to miss you every time my hair goes up or down and there’s no hand that can’t resist giving it a stroke. And on that note, my hair is really going to miss your moustache. They get up to some crazy shenanigans while we’re asleep at night, you know!_
> 
> _You’ve done some really impossible things- And I don’t just mean on the battlefield, even though you’ve pulled out some pretty fancy tricks there quite often too! You managed to get me to stay somewhere for more than six months, to allow someone to touch me and for me to feel love again. You allowed me a second chance at things at things I had written off for my life._
> 
> _They are things I can only have with you though, things that I will have to give up again now._
> 
> _But you are my saviour, Reginald, and you always will be._
> 
> _If we ever meet again, I have high hopes you’ll bring all those things back to me so that I can have the life I truly want again. With you. For now though, I’m content to slip back into my bad, old ways to survive. They’re not that awful. The me that lives them isn’t that awful either; you saw something in him after all._
> 
> _My favourite times here in Project Freelancer were the times I forgot my life had ever been different. I don’t want to forget all the exciting people and places I’ve experienced, mind, but when I could forget what it was like to be without a man I love as deeply as I love you, a team like the Freelancers and a family like my ducklings... If I could forget what it was like to be without them before, then it felt as if my life was going to stay in this perfect way forever._
> 
> _Project Freelancer always had its problems, but all perfect things are flawed. You have all your dashingly handsome scars and that adorable, little butterfly-shaped mark on the back of your left hip that you think I don’t know about, just for example. Flaws make things real, because we’re all flawed down here and perfect things float off to heaven to be with God – That was the tale they spun us at the orphanage whenever anything good went away. I don’t even believe in a god like that now._
> 
> _Agent Texas told me that it was justice to bring this project down. I must confess that I don’t frankly believe there is any justice in life. People don’t deserve anything, in either way, after the things I have been through. There is only happiness and sadness in this world to me, and I can’t see a point in justice if it doesn’t make people happy. I was fighting to preserve this project because I thought it made people happy- No. That’s a naughty fib, I’m afraid. I was fighting because this project made me happy._
> 
> _I loved all of Project Freelancer’s problems as a part of it. I loved its sense of purpose and a crew-size where you could get to know everyone by name, if you were one of the few that made the effort to. Everything I wanted was here; missions, the chance to fight, a use for both my body and head. I became such a better person here – Even if I hear a lot of disagreeing noises now – although I expect most of that is thanks to you, my devoted darling._
> 
> _I don’t regret the pain that leaving will cause me, although I do regret it causing you pain too._
> 
> _I only regret that I couldn’t keep together the project that gave me so much. I feel just awful that I couldn’t give enough back after all the people and times it gave me. I managed to do nothing for it in the end..._
> 
> _Now, if you’ll permit me to be erratic, and end on a lighter note, I believe we were going to talk about sex presents for when we get back together. A collar’s always been my guilty, little desire – It’s so versatile! Not only the dom/sub stuff you already know I just adore but pet-play and slaves as well! – for my 33cm neck, in a nice royal blue. Or get it in black if you want to wear it too sometimes, and a size that fits us both. Oh, I can’t wait to see now which colour it will be! I know you like subbing too sometimes and it’s getting me all hot and tingly thinking about taming you!_
> 
> _And 479er would never get me a dildo no matter how much I offered her. I told her I wanted one that was just over six inches like you and all she said was that she was surprised your sniper rifle wasn’t for compensating. Well! She really has some nerve to imagine you’re not as majestic down there as the moustache on your fine face. I can’t wait to see what colour that is too. Something nice and bright I hope! But frankly you could get me any toy and I’d play with it, Reggie. And you could watch ;)_
> 
> _But now I really do think I’ve rambled on enough. I wanted to give you as much as possible to take with you but I’m afraid it’s hardly fair to give you such a poorly structured letter because of that. I’m terrible at writing without losing the plot a little, and expressing my deepest feelings is something I’ve had very little practice of, as you know. But I would never write a letter like this for anyone else._
> 
> _After all, I began it ‘Dear Reginald’ and you’re the only Reginald I’ve ever known!_
> 
> _All my love forever,_  
>  _Butch Flowers_
> 
> _P.S. I love you, Reginald. Just wanted to say it again._  
>  _And there’s a bit for Gamma on the back.’_

It was Butch’s joking at the end, of all the things, that made him cry.

The perfect letter really, if it was all he could have now. A letter, a T-shirt, photos and a dog tag... That’s nowhere near enough to fill a person-sized hole in your life. It was all he had now.

Reginald turned over the final sheet, seeing half a page or so for the AI. He could sense Gamma reading it through his eyes as his fingers traced the beautiful, slightly wonky letters.

> _‘Dear Gamma,_
> 
> _I heard you doing a little bit for me so I really ought to return the favour. I know we said some very nice feelings to one another earlier but there are some things I struggle to say even to your pretty, blue face. And looking back, I feel simply awful for forgetting you in the entirety of my letter to Reginald._
> 
> _I don’t mind that you didn’t like me for the longest while either, and I was very surprised earlier to hear that’s changed now. I really do hope you stay with Reginald so that I’ll be able to see you again someday as well; it’s not just the two of us now. It’s three that ought to be together._
> 
> _And please, don’t ever leave Reginald like I am now. If all three of us got scattered it would be a complete tragedy and I couldn’t bear it. I really do you hope you’re both very fond of each other and I don’t mind at all the thought of you becoming as close to Reginald as I am. You take over caring for him in every way I can’t now, do you ~~hear?~~ Sorry, read?_
> 
> _If we do, I very much hope, get to meet again, Gamma, if you want to lie to me at any time, I will always believe you from now on. You need to know someone will always be there for you no matter what you say, I think, and I want to always be there for you so you don’t have to face the world alone anymore. If you want to lie or do wrong, I will take the fall with you willingly next time. I’ve certainly done a lot of wrong in my time already I could do with falling for._
> 
> _I will always trust you, Gamma, even if you lie to me. I hope one day I can help you trust in someone else too, just as we’ve both trusted in Reginald._
> 
> _Although I agreed with their diagnosis I’m unfit for AI implantation, I’m not quite so 100% sure on that anymore, you know. There must be some reason I keep catching myself having fantasies of having you inside my head this past week, Gamma._
> 
> _< 11,_  
>  _Butch Flowers, a.k.a. Strawhead, a.k.a. Broken Source’_

“Less than eleven?” Reginald pondered about the valediction.

Gamma, on the other hand, felt dryly amused. “I believe he is having one of his moments where he shows his true intelligence. It is binary. It is a 3. I presume because there are three of us, or because ‘Gamma’ is the third letter of the Greek Alphabet. You are alpha, he is beta, I am gamma.”

Now Reginald got to chuckle. “I think it’s a heart then, mate.”

“Oh.” Gamma processed that, and it took a remarkably long moment for the AI. “Wait. What. That would signal...”

“He might love you,” his host teased.

Gamma actually flashed for a moment his emotional reaction was so strong, although he kept it unclear what emotions it was. “Reggie, we should get started on the plan,” the AI said instead.

“All right.” Reginald got up, putting the letter away somewhere very safe and beginning on the preparations. Gamma disappeared back into his mind to help him remember every necessary thing there was to do today. “Commence operation... Didn’t-give-it-a-name.”

 _“Grab and Go?”_ Gamma suggested. _“Loot and leave?”_

“Ah. In an alliterative mood today, are we by any chance?”

_“I like to try out new material.”_

“Well, just glad you’re perky again, little chap. Was getting kind of worried about you.”

Gamma did seem more excited. Butch’s letter had given him very good thoughts and feelings, even if he tucked most of them away for privacy towards the end. _“I am just glad that we are leaving,”_ Gamma said. _“You should move on, Reggie.”_

“I am moving on, once I can get all these blasted-” He grunted, struggling with them when they wouldn’t behave.

_“Yes. You are moving on from. But where are you moving on to?”_

“We planned this. Thought you had a destination for us, mate. Don’t tell me you haven’t worked anywhere out yet!” he laughed, knowing his AI was more reliable than that.

 _“I know where we are going. But what about you, Reggie?”_ Gamma asked calmly, slightly concerned.

“I’ll just head wherever you say is best.” Everything was ready on their desk. Time to head to breakfast. “And wherever the money is, eh?”

 _“...Yes.”_ Gamma retreated, saying he needed to check today’s plans.

After breakfast, 8:00. Stripping the sheets from the beds and taking to laundry everything that needed washing to come with them. Skids was there and asked no questions when Agent Wyoming wanted to wash a few things himself, just as Skids hadn’t asked when the agent refused to have his sheets changed the other day.

9:00. Write all the necessary notes. Simple work. Reginald still complained about it.

9:15. Prepare the bundles of notes and gifts, as Butch had wished.

9:25. Wait.

“This is a pretty bloody boring part of the plan,” Reginald sighed, laying out the cards for another game of solitaire.

_“We cannot begin yet. It will be too obvious if we give them out now.”_

“I know. Just saying... Nothing else at all we can do?”

_“Well...”_

10:10. Begin secret mission.

_“Gamma, stop playing the sodding ‘Mission Impossible’ theme in my head. Concentrate on running the armour enhancement.”_

_“It is running itself practically. Let me have this.”_

Reginald sighed, stepping into the special weapons and technology storage after his AI opened the door for him. Time was frozen for everyone else on the ship right now but speed was still of the essence so they didn’t drain his armour too much.

Grabbing quite a few useful bits, including some other simple armour enhancements Gamma wanted to install and play with, they ducked out and were away, speeding time back up without anyone being the wiser.

Took literally no time at all. Back to solitaire then.

12:20. Lunch.

12:40. Wait. Again.

“This really is a boring plan of yours, mate.”

_“Considering we AI actually think at a far faster rate than humans, I should be the one complaining about severe boredom all of the time.”_

“Thought you slowed down for me.”

_“I slow down because all of life goes at your pace, snail-beings. My plan is precisely time-managed anyway.”_

“All right. What’s the next phase then?”

13:45. Enter Santa-mode.

 _“Do I look like Santa to you somehow?”_ Reginald griped as they hid waiting to sneak into the Operations room when the last operative left. _“Are your visual circuits busted or something?”_

_“Would you prefer to be the Easter Bunny?”_

_“More appropriate,”_ Reginald replied as he finally snuck in, _“considering the amount of blasted chocolate I’m delivering.”_

_“And the fact you and Butch fornicated like rabbits.”_

_“Yes, yes...”_

17:30. Take care of Butch’s ducklings for him.

Although many of them had already received gifts passed on from Butch throughout the present-giving earlier, taking care of them overall required one final, special thing.

Reginald left what they needed in a note, tucked inside Ricky’s helmet with the gift for him whilst he was busy doing maintenance on one of the pelicans.

He left them his family’s home address, telling them that if they could get to Earth, to England, that all of them had his blessing to crash at his house and take as much of his money as they needed. To ensure his father and Linch would know, Reginald gave them his middle name in the letter which he never used and was practically impossible to guess from the initial. Even if it was on the files, they wouldn’t have known that knowing it was the ultimate symbol of his trust in someone.

Reginald slunk out of the hangar, hoping that was enough for Butch.

18:00. Eat final meal on the ship alone in their corner for symbolism.

Reginald had no company there tonight. Gamma talked with him in his mind but no one sat across from him in the other seat.

18:30. Wait.

22:00. Pack.

Although quite a lot was done already, they still had to make sure two people’s lives were packed up into the two bags they were taking. Gamma’s sense of perception and superior memory was helpful for that and they could leave their rooms as if no one had ever been there.

One final stop.

23:00. Final gifts; Freelancers.

Reginald didn’t really mind the work he had been doing today, his final orders. He was happy to give back to all the people who had given Butch somewhere he loved so much for all the years. And he found himself reflecting back with fondness as well, although he was glad his name was not on any of the gift notes considering the unkind reputation he had to maintain here.

This note did have his name on though. Whatever gifts they hadn’t found another recipient for were left on the table in the centre of the rec room for the three remaining Freelancers to fight over with a simple note.

> _‘North, South and Wash,_
> 
> _Sorry to make like a banana and split but my place isn’t here any longer. Butch would have given you all a goodbye hug but I’m certainly not doing that part for him._
> 
> _Take care now,_  
>  _Reginald, Butch and Gamma’_

Beside where he left the note, he saw more origami which must have been North’s doing. There were half a dozen failed cats lying forlorn and broken or torn on the table. Reginald realised they were made from the last of the arts and crafts kit he had bought them yonks ago when... when C.T. had still been with them. When there had been ten Freelancers, not just three.

Picking up the scissors North had been using to cut squares of paper with, he went to the map on the wall as well. He had seen what was done to it after the break-in and Butch couldn’t bear being in the same room as it anymore: C.T. and Tex were vandalised, York and Maine were cut out and Carolina was simply crossed through.

Oh, and there was another new addition now; a crude barbed wire fence had been drawn between North and South Dakota. Someone around here really did like their symbolism...

Agent Wyoming took the scissors to the map, snipping carefully until there were two new holes and a paper rectangle and appendix in his hand – Why did he have to have such a boring state shape? At least Butch got something interesting.

Finally, Reginald glanced at the drawing of his own home county back in England he had added on the right side. He wanted to go home.

He just needed to find out where his home had been sent.

23:15 My goodbye.

 _“Your goodbye?”_ Reginald asked as Gamma moved along the plan.

_“Yes. I have one goodbye that I need to make. I cannot be bothered to leave your head to do it, so you will have to listen and try not to think much.”_

_“All right. I’ll try to think like a church-mouse then,”_ Reginald supposed whilst Gamma began connecting himself to something.

It made his head ache slightly, then after a moment Gamma asked, _“Hello?”_

 _“Gamma?”_ It was Theta. He could hear Theta in his head. _“Oh! Why is Agent Wyoming still awake? You should be asleep, Agent Wyoming.”_

 _“Ah, erm, can’t sleep tonight,”_ he responded as simply as he could, trying not to think about what they were doing.

 _“You’re leaving?”_ Theta asked.

Well, so much for that.

Gamma was griping about useless humans and their inability to even control their own minds. Reginald left the actual conversation to him. _“Excuse my human. I am still in the process of training him.”_ So this was what the AIs got up to when the humans were asleep.

_“Oh, mine fell asleep twenty minutes ago. I don’t think he’s going to leave Project Freelancer though. He wants to stay for Wash. And if he stays, Agent South is gonna’ stay too.”_

_“You will have to look after the three humans alone once I am gone.”_

_“Okay...”_ Theta agreed a little sadly.

_“But I know that you can do it, Theta. You are incredible, and probably the best of us at dealing with humans.”_

_“I’m... I’m incredible?”_

_“Yes,”_ Gamma told him kindly, _“you are.”_

Reginald somehow sensed that Theta believed him and was rather pleasantly embarrassed right now. He wouldn’t have thought Trust and Deceit could get along at all but there was nothing fake in Gamma’s compliment and the praise seemed to mean everything to the younger AI.

 _“I’m gonna’ miss you lots, Gamma,”_ Theta admitted, _“but I want you to go find Florida. He might be kind of scary sometimes but he’s so nice and I miss him. And you miss him, so I hope you find him.”_

_“Thank you. I will also miss you greatly.”_

_“Will we see each other again?”_

Gamma computed the odds and his plans and said, _“Yes. After we find Butch, I will want to see my brothers again.”_

 _“Delta and Omega too?”_ Theta asked excitably.

_“I hope.”_

_“I can’t wait! I wanna’ find a bigstreet where all the agents can live together and not have to fight or hurt each other anymore. Then we can see each other all the time! But um,”_ Theta shrunk back nervously, aware he was getting carried away, _“I don’t know if...”_

 _“I hope that Agent North helps you find somewhere.”_ Reginald wasn’t sure he had ever heard Gamma be so genuine with someone.

 _“Thanks. Well... I guess I’ll see you later, some time, Gamma,”_ Theta finished, trying to be a big boy and not sound too sad.

_“Yes. Until we see each other again.”_

_“Good luck! You too, Agent Wyoming!”_

_“Oh, er... thanks, lad.”_

There was then a strange sensation, the emotional content of a hug without the physical sensation. Even the AIs’ feelings were transmittable binary after all. _“Take care, my brother. I will make sure to have lots of new jokes for when I see you again,”_ Gamma said finally.

_“Awesome! Byeee!”_

Gamma logged off the wifi channel with the same reluctance that had kept the AIs saying just one more thing to each other. With the connection severed, the mild ache in Reginald’s head disappeared. He thought it sensible to ask, _“Can we trust him? I mean, if North finds out and all that.”_

 _“You seem to forget that my younger brother is Trust itself,”_ Gamma reminded him.

 _“Yes, well...”_ It was impossible to think after that conversation that the AIs were anything so narrow as their single attribute. _“He’s always so skittish though. I’ve never understood how he’s Trust,”_ Reginald admitted as he stood, collecting his bags.

_“As Trust, Theta cannot help trusting others. However, he is not foolish enough to think that trust is never betrayed. He is very aware, and very afraid, of his trust being betrayed.”_

Yet he trusted Deceit? Well, Reginald let himself do the same. “Come on then. What’s next?”

23:35. Get transportation.

“All right! All right! Hold your freaking horses...” 479er stumbled out of the bed she had just settled into, feeling a bit sleep-drunk, to answer the polite knock on her door. She opened it to find a full suit of white Spartan armour pointing a pistol at her head. “Yeah, sorry, wrong room; I didn’t order the armed, midnight wake-up call.”

“Dreadfully sorry about this, my dear,” Wyoming began politely, annoyed he had had to wait his turn to get his quip in, “but I need a little help with a ship, if you don’t mind.”

479er just reached out and pushed the pistol aside nonchalantly as if it wasn’t actually loaded. Okay, so maybe the safety was on but he could have quickly turned that off if needs be. “You don’t need the pistol, Wyoming. God’s sake, you like to take your time, don’t you?” Going back into her room, the pilot began to drag out a large, packed bag of her own and took her pilot’s armour from over the back of a chair.

Lowering his weapon, Wyoming frowned as he watched her fiddle with the buttons on her pyjama shirt. “I’m... afraid I don’t quite follow. Just what’s going on here?”

“What? You never seen a chick naked before?” she laughed, turning back brazenly to him with her chest bare. Pointing to it, she explained, “You see, these parts are for-”

“Yes! I know what they’re for! Good God, woman; haven’t you ever heard of modesty?” Wyoming was certain he’d turned away so fast he’d give himself whiplash.

479er laughed, throwing off all her clothes to get into her bodysuit. Even Gamma had turned off his senses. “Eh. Modesty’s over-rated. I like a woman who shows you her most radical trick on the first date. No point holding it back.”

“Dear God...”

_“I still prefer hard drives.”_

“All-righty!” Once 479er was clipping on her armour plates they could look again. “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

“Yes, yes,” Wyoming agreed, stepping aside to let her out the door. “Although it sounds as if ‘blowing popsicles’ isn’t quite your thing, my dear.”

She paused, cocking her head and one hand on her hip. “You’re a gentleman, right?”

“One does try to uphold the ideals of being a _preux chevalier_ ,” he admitted, before noting her blank silence, “if one had the upbringing to know what that is.”

“Ooo-la-laa! Just carry my fucking bag, Frenchy,” 479er said, tossing it at him without a chance to refuse.

Wyoming caught it, but not gladly. “Oof! Do I look like some sort of pack mule, you damned sluggard?!”

“Hey, look at it this way,” she laughed; “at least you’ll be super buff when you see Florida again!”

23:45. Arrive at hangar.

Find all of Butch’s ducklings waiting for them was not part of the plan, however.

“Ready to go?” Ricky asked cheerfully from where he was sitting up on the wing of a pelican. The other dozen all stood around the side, bags packed and waiting.

“Rick?!” 479er yelled up at him. “What the hell are you doing?! Get these people out of the hangar and go back to bed; you’re not leaving!”

“No,” Ricky firmly declined. “Florida’s left, and now we’re going too.”

“You think all of you can just leave at once?! That you can go on fucking _strike_ from Project Freelancer over Florida?!” 479er shouted at him again.

Standing up on the edge of the wing, Ricky leapt down to the floor in front of her resolutely. “If Project Freelancer thinks it can survive without Agent Florida, it thinks it can survive without all of us.” And he led them all in saluting with a fist to their heart.

479er looked to Wyoming, appealing for him to use whatever second-hand power he had over Florida’s gaggle. She had wanted to get out for a little while but had waited to go with someone for protection and ease. He was a prime candidate to leave after Florida’s dismissal so he had been her plan. But two slipping out in the middle of the night was a very different deal to 15 leaving all at once out of a crew of just over 100 on this ship.

Wyoming was just astounded though. He supposed his actions today must have been pretty obvious when there was a duckling in every part of the ship. And what with the way Ricky had stepped up to fill Butch’s shoes, he wasn’t sure he could deny them now even if he wanted to. “You’re all leaving because they sent Butch away?” he asked.

“None of us can stay here without him,” Ricky replied.

Wyoming looked around the assembled group. Ragtag, underappreciated and family. Everything they had written for him on that yearbook page that Butch had never gotten to hear...

_‘You have no idea how much it meant to that first time you brought me coffee when the senior doctors had stuck me on yet another all-night shift. I actually cried after you came back the next day and stood up to all of them for me. Thank you so much, Florida.’_

_‘We can’t even count up all the times you came and gave us a hand preparing vegetables or washing up. It was such a simple thing but you always knew just when we needed it most.’_  
‘Even if you made us give you extra dessert for it. And we know you steal ingredients when you bake with us, by the way.’  
‘We’ve got massive plans for your third anniversary next month. We can’t wait for you to see them as our way of saying thanks for everything!’

_‘You were the only one who took me seriously when I came out. Without you I think I would have just slipped back into letting people treat me like a boy again. But you gave me the chance I’ve always been dreaming of, Floriduck; I’ll never be able to repay that.’_

_‘Even if we only joined your group because you’re with Wyoming, we really came to admire you too, Florida. You are definitely the most awesome agent, Wyoming aside.’  
‘And we try harder every single day because of you. You might be way above us now, but you made us believe we could catch up one day. Thanks!”_

_‘We’re going to write ours together, **because you’re one of the only people who has ever treated us like two separate people,** not just creepy twins. **You always encouraged us in everything we loved,** and you never said a single judging word about it. **So thanks, Flori-dad!** You’re the best!’_

_‘Even if it took you a few months, you were the first one to ever give us a single fucking thank you for all the work we do on this ship. And when you started helping out too... You know, I just about ready to screw the whole thing and quit. You’re the only reason I can carry on each week, Big Duck.’  
‘You’re a rare type, Ducky Lad. Not many realise you have to look after even your ass if you want to sit down comfortably. Thank you for treating us like human beings.’_

_‘Agent Florida, you are the only person who has ever told me that it’s okay to take a break and put myself first when I need it. I must admit, I found you difficult and troublesome at first. But now when I look at you, I see a person who has given me more love and care than even my own parents. I understand why many of us, even those older than you, call you ‘Dad’. Thank you.’_

_‘You’re the best friend that I’ve ever had, Butch. You tease me and challenge me but you do it because I’m an equal in your eyes. I didn’t ever imagine I’d be equal to someone incredible like you but now you’ve made me believe it. I’ve come so far now. I feel like a proper, worthy person now. Meeting you was one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I’m so glad I joined Project Freelancer, and it’s all thanks to you.’_

> _‘I only regret that I couldn’t keep together the project that gave me so much. I feel just awful that I couldn’t give enough back after all the people and times it gave me. I managed to do nothing for it in the end...‘_

_“Butch,”_ Reginald thought, looking around all the faces and helmets ready to leave just for him, _“I can’t believe you have no bloody idea you were the only thing keeping it together for years.”_

“They’re coming with us,” Wyoming decided.

A couple of small cheers went up and bags began to be lifted, feet making their way towards the entrance ramp at the back of the pelican. 479er shrugged and gave in, letting this be on the Freelancer’s head if it went wrong.

“Excuse me, but I must stop you all right there.” It didn’t take long at all to go wrong. FILSS had noticed and her voice was filling the room. “You are not allowed to leave this ship, any of you.”

Everyone paused, caught awkwardly wondering if they could make a run for it or if all this had been for nothing but earning themselves a punishment. They were all looking about, wondering if anyone had a solution.

Wyoming was quite surprised when one materialised by his shoulder.

“Not a single person here has been directly ordered **not** to leave,” Gamma said, talking to the other AI.

FILSS hesitated. “...No, that is true.”

“And we are not prevented from taking our own initiatives where we believe they will help the project,” he continued.

She hesitated thoughtfully again. Although FILSS likely knew she was being toyed with by Gamma’s sophistry, she still listened to him speak. “...I must admit,” she finally said, “I am not pleased that Agent Florida has left. I would like him back.” For the first time, Wyoming was actually glad for the system’s little crush on Butch. “And so I must regretfully concede something to Gamma.”

“Hey. I heard that.”

“As you are not breaking any explicit orders, I am capable of looking the other way. I believe I will choose to do so now. Please leave whilst I am doing it.” Back on track, everybody piled on with greater cheer. “I will blame the oversight in my system on the crash, do not worry. And if you do find Agent Florida, say hello to him for me. I hope that one day I have visual circuitry so that I can see him again.”

“I hope you do too, FILSS,” 479er agreed whilst waiting as one of the last to board. “Oh, and FILSS?”

“Yes?”

479er jacked a thumb at the crates that had been left scattered around the hangar on one side. “Tell Jack to put those over there.”

“I will tell him to put them _over there_ ,” FILSS agreed cheerfully. “Goodbye to you all, and good luck. It has been an honour housing you.”

“You too, computer lady,” 479er called, saluting wherever the voice was. “Ready to set off?” she asked Ricky.

“Absolutely! That co-pilot seat has your name on it!” he replied.

“Co-pilot?! I don’t co-pilot for anyone, least of all you!”

“Sorry! This is pelican 525! And I called dibs!”

“Damn international protocol...”

Wyoming watched the two bickering pilots head into the front as he looked around for his own seat. 13 people in a troop bay with 10 seats meant some double-ups. Luckily a free seat had been left for him but it was right next to-

“Oh, good Lord... Do I really have to sit next to Laurel and Hardy all bloody flight?” His two fanboys were excitably crammed in the same seat beside the vacant one, waiting for him.

“We saved you a seat, Sir!”

“There’s no in-flight movie but we’d happily talk with you instead!”

“I hope it’s a long flight!”

“Dear God...” Wyoming shook his head, wondering if he could find somewhere to stand at the other end of the craft for however many hours this took.

“I would happily exchange my seat with you, Agent Wyoming,” Cole spoke up from the other side. “However, you would have to share, and I imagine you don’t want to sit with this foul-mouthed street-punk any more than I do.” He disdainfully frowned at Skids sharing his seat.

“Aw, you wound me, baby!” Skids teased back. “I know you just love being squeezed right up close to me really.”

“Oh God. Desist your flirting or I will find some way to knock at least one of us out for the duration of this flight.”

Wyoming sighed and groaned, just wishing Butch could have picked up a much less annoying family if he had to have one. He was definitely ditching the lot of them at the first chance he got. This flight was going to be long, too bloody long.

But it was a flight setting out because of Butch and all he had done for every one of them.

Wherever he was now, whatever he was doing, Butch shouldn’t be regretting.

Reginald was going to find him, and he was going to tell him that.

00:00. Leave Project Freelancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!
> 
> I'm not sure how people feel about the ducklings - sorry about the OC-heavy ending if you don't like them - but this story was meant to be about how Butch changed and what Project Freelancer meant to him. Since he wasn't heavily involved in the events on-screen and with the other Freelancers, I needed to have them to demonstrate it. He seems like the type that would make friends with the crew members rather than just ignoring them or treating them as servants like the other Freelancers. They will be in the first chapter next story, but then that's it, for better or worse.
> 
> So come back same time next week to start the sequel. In the meantime, I'll hopefully be posting a few things related to this series on my Tumblr if you're interested. You're missing out on small extras to this series if you don't follow it. It's here: http://milsmill.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read! And extra thanks to ElricLawliet and HappyFunBallXD who have commented on practically every chapter; I wish I had more support like you two!


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